The Price of Things by Elinor Glyn
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Elinor Glyn >> The Price of Things
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When Amaryllis was alone after the motor with Mrs. Ardayre in it had
departed, an uncontrollable fit of restlessness came over her. The visit
had stirred up all her emotions again; she could not grieve any more
about the tragedy of John; her whole being was vibrating with thoughts
of Denzil and desire for his presence--she could see his face and feel
the joy of his kisses.
At that moment she would have flung everything in life away to rush
into his arms!
CHAPTER XVIII
Denzil was wounded at Neuve Chapelle on March 10th, 1915, though not
seriously--a flesh wound in the side. He had done most gallantly and was
to get a D.S.O. He had been in hospital for two weeks and was almost well
when Amaryllis came up to Brook Street, on the first of April. She had
read his name in the list of wounded, and had telegraphed to his mother
in great anxiety, but had been reassured, and now she throbbed with
longing to see him.
To know that soon he would be going back again to the Front, was almost
more than she could bear. She was feeling wonderfully well herself. Her
splendid constitution and her youth made natural things cause her little
distress. She was neither nervous nor fretful, nor oppressed with fancies
and moods. And she looked very beautiful with her added dignity of mien
and perfectly chosen clothes.
Mrs. Ardayre came at once to see her the morning after her arrival, and
suggested that Denzil should come when out driving that afternoon.
Amaryllis tried to accept this suggestion calmly, and not show her joy,
and Mrs. Ardayre left, promising to bring her son about four.
Denzil had said to his Mother when he knew that Amaryllis was coming
to London:
"Mum, I want to see Amaryllis--please arrange it for me. And Mum, don't
ask me anything about it; just leave me there when we drive and come and
fetch me when I must go in again."
Mrs. Ardayre was a very modern person, but she could not help exclaiming
in a half voice while she sat by her son's bed:
"You know she is going to have a baby in a month, dear boy, perhaps she
won't care to see you now."
A flush rose to Denzil's forehead: "Yes, I do know," he said a little
hurriedly, "but we are not conventional in these days. I wish to see her;
please, darling Mother, do what I ask."
And then he had turned the conversation.
So his mother had obediently arranged matters, and at about four in the
afternoon left him at the Brook Street door.
Early as it was, Amaryllis had made the tea, and expected to see both
Denzil and his mother. The room was full of hyacinths and daffodils, and
she herself looked like a spring flower, as she sat on the sofa among the
green silk cushions, wrapped in a pale parma violet tea-gown.
The butler announced "Captain Ardayre," and Denzil came in slowly, and
murmured "How do you do?"
But as soon as the door was closed upon him, he started forward,
forgetting his stiff side.
He covered her hands with kisses, he could not contain his joy; and
then he drew back and looked at her with worship and reverence in his
blue eyes.
The most mysterious, quivering emotions were coursing through him, mixed
with triumph, as he took in the picture she made. This delicate,
beautiful creature! And to see her--so!
Amaryllis lowered her head in a sweet confusion; her feelings were no
less aroused. She was thrilling with passionate welcome and delicious
shyness. Nature was indeed ruling them both, and with a glad "Darling
Angel!" Denzil sat down beside her and clasped her in his arms. Then for
a few seconds delirious pleasure was all that they knew.
"Let me look at you again, Sweetheart," he ordered presently, with a tone
of command and possession in his very deep voice, which caused Amaryllis
delight. It made her feel that she really belonged to him.
"To me you have never been so beautiful--and every scrap of you is mine."
"Absolutely yours."
"I had to come--I cannot help whether it is right or wrong. I must go
back to the Front as soon as I am fit, and I could not have borne to go
without seeing you, darling one."
They had a hundred things to say to each other about themselves--and
about the baby, and the next hour was very sacred and wonderful.
Denzil was a superlatively perfect lover and knew the immense value of
tender words.
He intoxicated Amaryllis' imagination with the moving things he said.
Alas! how many worthy men miss themselves, and make their loved ones
miss the best part of life's joys by their mulish silence and refusal
to gratify this desire of all women to be _told_ that they are loved,
to have the fact expressed in passionate speech! No deeds make up for
this omission.
Denzil had none of these limitations; he said everything which could
cajole and excite the imagination. He murmured a hundred affecting
tendernesses in her ears. He caressed her--he commanded and mastered her,
and then assured her that he was her slave. He was arrogant and
humble--arrogant when he claimed her love, humble in his worship. He
spoke of the child and what it meant to him that it should be his and
hers. He caused her to feel that he was strong and protective and that
she was to be cherished and adored. He made pictures of how it would be
if he could spend a whole day and night with her presently in June, when
she would be quite well, and of how thrilled with interest he would be to
see the baby, and that, of course, it _must_ be exactly like himself! And
Amaryllis' eyes, all soft and swimming with emotion answered him.
Naturally, since she loved him so passionately, it would be his image!
Had not his own mother accounted for his pronounced Ardayre stamp by her
having been so in love with his father--so, of course, this would
re-occur! It was all dear to think about!
They spent another hour of divine intoxication, and then the clock
struck six.
It sounded like a knell.
Amaryllis gave a little cry.
"Denzil, it is altogether unnatural that you should have to go. To
think that you must leave me, and may not even welcome your son! To
think that by the law we are sinning, because I am sitting here clasped
in your arms! To think that I may not have the joy of showing you the
exquisite little clothes, and the pink silk cot--all the things which
have given me such pleasure to arrange.... It is all too cruel! You
know that eighteenth century engraving in the series of Moreau le
Jeune, of the married lovers playing with the darling, teeny cap
together! Well, I have it beside my bed, and every day I look at it and
pretend it is you and me!"
"Darling--Darling!"--and Denzil fiercely kissed her, he was so
deeply moved.
"It is all holy and beautiful, the coming to earth of a soul. It only
makes me long to be good and noble and worthy of this wonderful thing.
But for us--we who love truly and purely, it has all been turned into
something forbidden and wrong."
"Heart of me--I must have some news of you. I cannot starve there in the
trenches, knowing that all the letters that should be mine are going to
John. My mother is really trustworthy, will you let her be with you as
often as you can, that she may be able to tell me how you are, precious
one? When the seventh of May comes I shall go perfectly mad with suspense
and anxiety. I will arrange that my mother sends me at once a telegram."
"Denzil!" and Amaryllis clung to him.
"It is an impossible situation," and he gave a great sigh. "I shall tell
John that I have seen you--I cannot help it, the times are too precarious
to have acted otherwise. And afterwards, when the war is over, we must
face the matter and decide what is best to be done."
"_I_ cannot live without you, Denzil, and that I know."
They said good-bye at last silently, after many kisses and tears, and
Denzil came out into the darkening street to his mother in the motor,
with white, set face.
"I am a little troubled, dearest boy," she whispered, as they went along.
"I feel that there is something underneath all this and that Amaryllis
means some great thing in your life--the whole aspect of everything fills
me with discomfort. It is unlike your usual, sensitive refinement,
Denzil, to have gone to see her--now--"
"I understand exactly what you mean, Mother. I should say the same thing
myself in your place. I can't explain anything, only I beg of you to
trust me. Amaryllis is an angel of purity and sweetness; perhaps some day
you will understand."
She took his hand into her muff and held it:
"You know I have no conventions, dearest, and my creed is to believe what
you say, but I cannot account for the situation because of your only
having met Amaryllis so lately for the first time. I could understand it
perfectly if you had been her lover, and the child was your child, but
she has not been married a whole year yet to John!"
Denzil answered nothing--he pressed his mother's hand.
She returned the pressure:
"We will talk no more about it."
"And you will go on being kind?"
"Of course."
Before they reached the hospital door in Park Lane Mrs. Ardayre had been
instructed to send an immediate telegram the moment the baby was born,
and to comfort and take care of Amaryllis, and tell her son every little
detail as to her welfare and about the child.
"I will try not to form any opinion, Denzil; and some day perhaps things
will be made plain, for it would break my heart to believe that you are a
dishonourable man."
"You need not worry, Mum dearest. Indeed, I am not that. It is just a
tragic story, but I cannot say more. Only take care of Amaryllis, and
send me news as often as you can."
* * * * *
The telegram to say that Amaryllis had a little son came to John Ardayre
on the night before he went into the trenches again at the second battle
of Ypres on May 9th, 1915. He had been waiting in feverish impatience
and expectancy all the day, and, in fact, for three days for news.
His whole inner life since that New Year's night had been strangely
serene, in spite of its frightful outward turmoil and stress. He had
taken the tumult of Neuve Chapelle calmly, and had come through it and
all the beginning of the Ypres battle without a scratch. He had felt that
he was looking upon it all from some detached standpoint, and that it in
no way personally concerned him.
He had seen Denzil do the splendid thing and he had felt a distinct
distress when he had seen him fall wounded.
Denzil was just back now and in the trenches again with the rest of the
dismounted cavalry. They might meet in the attack at dawn.
When John read the telegram from his aunt, Lady de la Paule, his emotion
was so great that he staggered a little, and a friend standing by in the
billet took out his flask and gave him some brandy, thinking that he must
have received bad news.
Then it seemed as though he went mad!
The repression of his life appeared to fall from him, he became as a new
man. All his comrades were astonished at him, and a Scotch Corporal was
heard to remark that it was "na canny--the Captain was fey."
The Ardayres were saved! The family would carry on!
Fondest love welled up in his heart for Amaryllis. If he only came
through he would devote his life to showing her his gratitude and
showering everything upon her that her heart could desire--and
perhaps--perhaps the joy of the baby would make up for the absence of
Denzil. This thought stayed with him and comforted him.
Lady de la Paule had wired:
"A splendid little son born 11:45 A.M. seventh May--Amaryllis
well--all love."
And an hour or two before this Denzil had also received the news from his
Mother. He, too, had grown exalted and thanked God.
So the day that the Germans were to fail at Ypres, and destiny was to
accomplish itself for these two men--dawned.
* * * * *
Of what use to write of that terrible fight and of the gas and the horror
and the mud? John Ardayre seemed to bear a charmed life as he led his men
"over the top." For an hour wild with exaltation and gladness, he rallied
them and cheered them on. The scene of blood and carnage has been too
often repeated on other fateful days, and as often well described, when
acts of glorious heroism occurred again and again. John had rushed
forward to succour a wounded trooper when a shell crashed near them, and
he fell to the ground. And then he know what the great thing was the New
Year had promised him. For death was going to straighten out
matters--John was going beyond. Well, he had never been rebellious, and
he knew now that light had come. But the sky above seemed to be darkening
curiously, and the terrible noise to be growing dim, when he was
conscious that a man was crawling towards him, dragging a leg, and then
his eyes opened wildly for an instant, and he saw that it was Denzil all
covered with blood.
"Are we both going West, Denzil?" he demanded faintly. "At least I am--"
then he gasped a little, while a stream of scarlet flowed from his
shattered side.
"I've asked you in a letter to marry Amaryllis immediately--if you get
home. I hope your number is not up, too, because she will be all alone.
Take care of her, Denzil, and take care of the child...." His voice grew
lower and lower, and the last words came in spasms: "There is an Ardayre
son, you know--so it's all right. The family is saved from Ferdinand and
I am very glad to die."
Denzil tried to get out his flask, but before he could reach John's lips
with it he saw that it would be of no avail--for Death had claimed the
head of the Family. And above his mangled body John's face wore a look of
calm serenity, and his firm lips smiled.
Then things became all vague for Denzil and he remembered nothing more.
CHAPTER XIX
It was more than two months before Denzil was well enough to be brought
from Boulogne, and then he had a relapse and for the whole of July was
dangerously ill. At one moment there seemed to be no hope of saving his
leg, and his mother ate her heart out with anxiety.
And Amaryllis, back at Ardayre with the little Benedict, wept many tears.
John's death had deeply grieved her. She realised his steadfast kindness
and affection for her. He had written her a letter just before the battle
had begun--a short epistle telling her calmly that the chances would be
perhaps even for any man to come out of it alive--and assuring her of his
greatest devotion.
"I know that Denzil went to see you, my dear little girl. He has told me
about it. And I know that you love each other. There is only one chance
for us in the future--and that lies with the child. It may be that when
it comes to you it may fill your life and satisfy you. This is my
prayer--otherwise we must see what can be arranged about things; because
I cannot allow you to be unhappy. You were an innocent factor in all
this, and it would be unjust that you should be hurt."
How good and generous John had always been.
And his letter to his lawyers! To make things smooth for her--and for
Denzil--how marvellously kind!
Her mourning for John was real and deep, as it would have been for a
brother. But during the month of intense anxiety about Denzil everything
else was numbed, even her interest in her son.
By the end of August he was out of danger, although little hope was
entertained that he would ever walk easily. But this was a minor
thing--and gradually it began to be some consolation to the two women who
loved him to know that he was safely wounded and would probably not be
fit for active service again for a very long time.
They wrote letters to one another, but they decided not to meet.
Six months must elapse at least, they both felt--even in spite of
John's commands.
Another shell must have fallen not far off, for his body was never
found--only his field glasses, broken and battered. And there would have
been no actual information about his death had not Denzil seen him die.
* * * * *
Harietta Boleski and Stanislass and Ferdinand Ardayre had remained in
Paris, with visits to Fontainebleau.
When John had been killed, Harietta had been extremely perturbed.
"Now Stepan will be able to marry that odious bit of bread and butter,
and he is sure to do it after the year!" This thought rankled with her
and embittered everything. Nothing pleased her. She grew more than ever
rebellious at the dullness she had to live in. War was an imposition
which ought not to be tolerated and she often told Hans so. At last she
grew to take quite an interest in her spying for lack of more agreeable
things to do.
And so the months went by and November came, and a madness of jealousy
was gradually augmenting in Harietta for Amaryllis Ardayre.
Verisschenzko had gone to Russia in September, and she was convinced
that he loved Amaryllis and that the child was his child. She could not
conceive of a spiritual devotion, and something had altered all Stepan's
ways. From the moment he returned to Paris until he had left she had
tried and been unable to invoke any response in him, and she had felt
like a foiled tigress when another has eaten her prey.
As the impossibility of moving him forced itself upon her unwilling
understanding, so the wildest passion for him grew, and when he left in
September she was quite ill for a week with chagrin; then she became
moody and more than ever capricious, and made Stanislass' life a hell,
while Ferdinand Ardayre had little less misery to endure.
An incident late in November caused her jealousy to burst into flame.
She heard that Verisschenzko had returned from Russia and she went to his
rooms to see him. The Russian servant who was accustomed to receive her
was there waiting for his master who had not yet arrived. Without a word
she passed the old man when he opened the door, and made her way into the
sitting room, and then into the bedroom beyond. She did not believe that
Stepan was not there and wanted to make sure. It was empty but a light
burned before an Ikon, the doors of which were closed.
Curiosity made Harietta go close and examine it. She knew the room so
well and had never seen it there before. The table beneath it was
arranged like an altar, and the Ikon was let in to the carved boiserie of
the wall. It must have been since he had parted with her that this
ridiculous thing had been done! She had not entered his _appartement_
since June. She felt angry that the shrine should be closed and that she
could not look upon it, for it must certainly be something which
Verisschenzko prized.
She bent nearer and shook the little doors; they resisted her, and her
temper rose. Then some force seemed to propel her to commit sacrilege.
She shook and shook and tore at the golden clasp, her irritation giving
strength and cunning to her hands; and at last the small bolt came undone
and the doors flew open--and an exquisitely painted modern picture of the
Virgin disclosed itself, holding the Christ child in her arms. But for
all the saintliness in the eyes of Mary, the face was an exact portrait
of Amaryllis Ardayre!
A frenzy of rage seized Harietta. Her rival reigned now indeed! This was
positive proof to her, not of spiritual meaning--not of the mystic,
abstract aloofness of worship which lay deep in Stepan's nature and had
caused him to have Amaryllis transfigured into the symbol of purity, a
daily reminder that she must always be for him the lady of his soul--such
things had no meaning for Harietta. The Ikon was merely a material proof
that Verisschenzko loved Amaryllis--and, of course, as soon as the year
of mourning should be over he would make her his wife.
She trembled with passionate resentment. Nothing had ever moved her so
forcibly. She took out her pearl hatpin and stabbed out the eyes of the
Virgin, almost shaking with passion, and scratched and obliterated the
face of the Christ child. This done, she extinguished the little lamp and
slammed to the doors.
She laughed savagely as she went back into the sittingroom.
"The Virgin indeed!--and _his_ child!--well, I've taught him!" and she
flung past the Russian servant with a look which was a curse, so that the
old man crossed himself and quickly barred the entrance door, when she
stamped off down the stairs.
Arrived in her gilded salon at the Universal, she would like to have
wrung some one's neck. She had never been so full of rage in her life.
She did find a little satisfaction in a kick at Fou-Chow, who fled
whining to his faithful Marie who had come in to carry away her mistress'
sable cloak.
The maid's face became thunderous. A look of sullen hate gleamed in her
dark eyes.
"She will kick thee, my angel, just once too often," she murmured to the
wee creature when she had carried him from the room. "And then we shall
see, thy Marie knows that which may punish her some day soon!"
Harietta, quite indifferent to these matters, telephoned immediately to
Ferdinand Ardayre.
He must come to her instantly without a moment's delay! And she
stamped her foot.
A plan which might give her some satisfaction to execute had evolved
itself in her brain.
He was in his room in another part of the building, and hastened to obey
her command. She was livid with anger and seemed to have grown old.
She went over and kissed him voluptuously and then she began:
"Ferdie," and she whispered hoarsely, "now you have got to do something
for me. You are not going to let the child of Verisschenzko be master of
Ardayre! We are going to gain time and perhaps some day be able to do
away with it. Now I have got a plan which will lighten your heart."
She knew that she could count upon him, for since the birth of the
little Benedict and the death of John, Ferdinand had stormed with threats
of vengeance, while knowing his impotency.
His life with Harietta had grown a torment and a hell--but with every
fresh unkindness and pang of jealousy she caused him, his low passion for
her increased. He knew that she loved Verisschenzko, whom he hated with
all his might--and if she now proposed to hurt both his enemies, he would
assist her joyfully.
"Tell it me," he begged.
So she drew him to the sofa and picked up a block and pencil.
"Do you possess any of the writing of your dead brother, John, or if you
don't, can you get some from anywhere?"
Ferdinand's face blazed with excitement. What was she going to suggest?
"I always keep one letter--in which he ordered me never to address him
and told me I was not of his blood but was a mongrel Turk."
"That is splendid--where is it? Have you got it here?"
"Yes, in my despatch box. I'll go and fetch it now."
"Very well. I will get rid of Stanislass for the evening and we can have
some hours alone--and you will see if I don't help you to worry them
hideously, Ferdie, even if that is all we can do!"
And when he had left her presence, she paced the room excitedly.
"It will prevent Stepan's marrying her at all events for; a long time."
The thought that she had lost Verisschenzko completely unbalanced her.
It was the first time in her life that she had had to relinquish a man.
She hated to have to realise how highly he must hold Amaryllis. He seemed
the only thing she wanted now in life, and she knew that he was quite
beyond her, and that indeed he had never been hers; the one human being
whom she had attracted and yet never been able to intoxicate and draw
against his will. She went over all their past meetings. With what
supreme insolence he had invariably treated her--even in moments when he
permitted himself to feel passion! And how she adored him! She would have
crawled to him now on the ground. She had not known she could feel so
much. Every animal, sensual desire made her throb with rage. She would
have torn the flesh from Amaryllis' face had she been there, and thrust
her hatpin into her real eyes.
But the spoke should be put in the wheel of Verisschenzko's marrying her!
And perhaps some other revenge would come. Hans?--Hans should be made to
carry the scheme through--Hans and Ferdinand. She dug her nails into the
palms of her hands. No wild animal in its cage could have felt more rage.
Then when Ferdinand returned with John's letter, she controlled herself
and sat down at the table beside him and supervised his attempts at
copying the writing, while she unfolded the details of her scheme.
"You know John's body was never found," she informed him presently. "I
heard all the details from a man who was there--they only picked up his
glasses and his boot. He could very well have been taken prisoner by the
Germans and be in hospital there, too ill to have written for all this
time. Now think how he ought to word his first letter to his precious
bread and butter wife!"
"There must only be the fewest words, because I don't know what
terms they were on. I think a postcard, if we get one, would be the
best thing."
"Of course?--I have some one who can see to that--it will be worth
waiting the week for--we'll procure several, and meanwhile you must
practise his hand."
At the end of half an hour a very creditable forgery had been secured,
and the two jealous beings felt satisfied with their work for the time.
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