The chaotic condition of mind into which Mr. Polydore May found himself
plunged by what to him was the inexplicable and crazy conduct of the
inexplicable and crazy young woman who so obstinately maintained her
right to consider herself his daughter, was nothing to the well-nigh
raving state of Captain the Honourable Reginald Cleeve, who was faced
with a still more intolerable position. He, when he had first called
upon Diana as she had invited him to do, experienced something in the
nature of a thunder-clap, when she explained, with much gracious,
albeit cold composure, that she was his former betrothed whom he had
“jilted” for a younger and wealthier woman. If he had been suddenly
hypnotised by a remorseless conjurer, he could not have been more
stricken into speechless and incredulous amazement. He sat in a chair
opposite to his fair and smiling informant, staring helplessly, while
she, having had tea brought in, prepared him a cup with hospitable ease
and condescension.
“When you got the note I left for you at the hotel,” she said, “surely
you recognised my handwriting?”
Still staring, he moistened his dry lips with his tongue and tried to
speak.
“Your handwriting?” he stammered--“I--I thought it very like the
handwriting of--of another Diana May I used to know----”
“Yes--another Diana May,” she said, bending her grave clear eyes upon
him--“A Diana May whose life you ruthlessly spoiled,--whose trust in
men and things you murdered--and why! Because you met a woman with
more money, who was younger than I--I, who had aged through waiting
patiently for you, as you had asked me to do--because you thought that
by the time you returned from India I should be what Society calls
_passée_! And for such callous and selfish considerations as these you
deliberately sacrificed my happiness! But I have been given a strange
and unexpected vengeance!--look at your wife and look at me!--which now
is the ‘younger’ of the two?”
He moved uneasily--there was something in her aspect that stabbed him
as though with physical force and pain.
“You--you must certainly know you are talking nonsense!” he said at
last, trying to pull himself together. “Yours is the queerest craze I
ever heard of! Here are you, a beautiful young girl in the very dawn of
womanhood, pretending to be a middle-aged spinster who was accidentally
drowned last year off the coast of Devon! I don’t know how you’ve come
by the same name as hers--or why your handwriting should resemble
hers,--it’s mere coincidence, no doubt--but that you should actually
declare yourself as one and the same identity with hers, is perfectly
ridiculous! I don’t deny that you seem to have got hold of the other
Diana May’s story--I _was_ engaged to her, that’s true--but I had to be
away in India longer than was at first intended--seven years nearly.
And seven years is a long time to keep faith with a woman who doesn’t
grow younger----”
“Doesn’t grow younger--yes--I see!” echoed Diana, with an enigmatical
smile. “And seven years is a long time for a woman to keep faith with a
man under the same circumstances. _You_ have not grown younger!”
He reddened. His personal vanity as “an officer and a gentleman” was
far greater than that of any woman.
“If we live, we are bound to grow older----” he said.
“Sometimes,” acquiesced Diana, pleasantly. “It is not always necessary.
In my case, for example----”
Looking at the fair and youthful outline of her features, the sense
of extreme incongruity between what she actually was and what she
resolutely avowed herself to be touched his innermost sense of humour,
and he laughed outright.
“Of course you are playing!” he said--“Playing with yourself and
me! You must be one of those queer psychists who imagine they are
re-embodied spirits of the past--but I don’t mind if that sort of thing
really amuses you! Only I wonder you don’t imagine yourself to be the
reincarnation of some fairy princess--or even the Diana who was the
goddess of the moon, rather than an ordinary spinster of the British
middle-class, who, even in her best days, was nothing more than the
usual type of pretty English girl.”
“To whom you wrote a good deal of ‘gush’ in your time--” said Diana
composedly--“which she was fool enough to believe. Do you remember this
letter?”
From a quaint blue velvet bag hanging at her side by a silver chain,
she drew a folded paper and handed it to him.
With eyes that grew hot and dim in giddy perplexity, he read his own
writing:
“How I love you, my own sweet little Diana! You are to me the most
adorable girl in the world, and if ever I do an unkind thing to you or
wrong you in any way, may God punish me for a treacherous brute! My
one desire in life is to make you happy.”
His hand,--the massive, veiny hand of a man accustomed to “do himself
well,” trembled, and the paper shook between his fingers.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, unsteadily--“It--it was written
quite a long time ago!”
“You sent it to me,” replied Diana. “I returned all your other letters,
but I kept that one,--and this.”
Another note was drawn daintily out from the blue velvet bag, and she
handed it to him with a smile.
Again his burning eyes travelled along his own familiar scrawl:
“I am quite sure you will understand that time has naturally worked
changes in you as well as in myself, and I am obliged to confess that
the feelings I had for you no longer exist. But you are a sensible
woman, and you are old enough now to realise that we are better apart.”
He lifted his head and tried to look at her. She met his shifting gaze
with a clear and level splendour of regard that pierced his very soul
with a subconscious sense of humiliation and conviction. Yet it was not
possible for him to believe her story,--the whole suggestion was too
fantastic and incredible. He gave her back the letters. She took them
from his hand.
“Well!” she said, tentatively.
“Well!” he rejoined--then forced a difficult smile--“I wrote these
things, certainly, but how you came by them I don’t know. Though, after
all, you might easily have met the other Diana May, and she might have
given you her confidence----”
“And her lover’s letters to keep?” said Diana, contemptuously. “So like
her! Reginald Cleeve, you said just now that I was playing--playing
with you and with myself. Believe me, I never was further from
‘play’ in my life! I’m in deadly earnest! I want----” She paused
and laughed--then added: “I only want what I can have for the
asking--_you_!”
He sprang up from his chair and came nearer to her, his face aglow with
ardour. She motioned him back.
“Not yet!” she said,--and the seductive beauty of her face and form
smote him as with a whip of steel--“It isn’t love at first sight,
you know, like that of Romeo and Juliet! We are _old_ lovers! And
_you_--you are married.”
“What does that matter?” he said, defiantly. “No man considers himself
bound nowadays by the matrimonial tie!”
“No?” she queried, sweetly. “I’m so glad to know that! It makes me
doubly thankful that I never married you!”
He made a closer step to her side and caught both her hands in his.
“Do you still persist,” he said, “in your idea that you are the old
Diana?--the woman I was engaged to?--you, a mere girl?”
She smiled most entrancingly up into the feverish eyes that searched
her face.
“I still persist!” she answered--“I have always loved telling the
truth, no matter how unpleasant! I _am_ the ‘old’ Diana to whom you
were engaged, and whom you heartlessly ‘threw over.’ Her, and no
other!--as ‘old’ as ever in years though not in looks!”
His grasp of her tightened.
“Then in Heaven’s name have your own way, you beautiful crazed
creature!” he said, passionately,--“If that is your obsession or fancy,
stick to it, and come back to me!”
She loosened her hands,--he tried to hold them, but they seemed to melt
from his clasp in the most curious and uncanny way like melting snow.
Drawing herself apart, she stood looking at him.
“Come back to you!” she echoed--“I never left you! It was you
who left _me_!--for no fault! And, now I suppose you would leave
your wife,--also for no fault--except perhaps--” and she laughed
lightly--“that of too much general weightiness! But she has given you
children--are you not proud and happy to be ‘the father of a family’?
Your daughters are certainly very plain,--but you must not go by
outward appearances!”
Her lovely face dimpled with smiles--her brilliant eyes, full of a
compelling magnetism, filled him with a kind of inward rage--he gave a
gesture of mingled wrath and pain.
“You are quite unlike the old Diana,” he said, bitterly. “She was the
gentlest of creatures,--she would never have mocked me!”
A rippling peal of laughter broke from her--laughter that was so cold
and cutting that its very vibration on the air was like the tinkling of
ice-drops on glass.
“True!” she said. “She was too gentle by half! She was meek and
patient--devoted, submissive and loving--she believed in a man’s
truth, honour and chivalry! Yes--the poor ‘old’ Diana had feeling and
emotions--but the ‘young’ Diana has none!”
The afternoon sunshine pouring through the window bathed her figure
in a luminance so dazzling and made of her such a radiant vision of
exquisite perfection that he was fairly dazzled, while the same uneasy
sense of the “supernatural” troubled him as it had troubled Mr. James
Polydore May.
“Well, if you _will_ talk like this,” he said, almost reproachfully--“I
had better not trouble you with my company--you said you wanted me----”
“So I do!” she rejoined--“I want you very much!--but not just now!
You can go--but come again soon! However I need not ask you--you are
sure to come! And you need not tell your wife to call upon me--I will
dispense with that formality! I prefer to ignore your ‘family!’ _Au
revoir!_”
She stretched out her hand--a little, lovely hand like that of the
marble Psyche--and hardly knowing what he did, he covered it with
kisses. She smiled.
“There, that will do!” she said--“Another time----”
She gave him a look that shot like lightning from her eyes into his
brain, and set it in a whirl.
“Diana!” He uttered the name as if it were a prayer.
“Another time!” she said, in a low, sweet tone--“And--quite soon!
But--go now!”
He left her reluctantly, his mind disquieted and terrorised. Some
potent force appeared to have laid hold of his entire being, drawing
every nerve and muscle as if by a strong current of electricity. In
a dim sort of way he was afraid,--but of what? This he could not
formulate to himself, but when he had gone out of her presence he was
aware of a strange and paralysing weakness and tiredness,--sensations
new to him, and--as he was a great coward where any sort of illness
was concerned--alarming. And yet--such was the hold her beauty had
on him, that he had made up his mind to possess it or die in the
attempt. All the men he knew about town were infatuated with the mere
glimpse of the loveliness which flashed upon them like the embodiment
of light from another and fairer world, and there was not one among
them who did not secretly indulge in the same hope as himself. But the
craze or “obsession,” or whatever it was that dominated her, as he
thought, gave him a certain advantage over her other admirers. For if
she really believed he had formerly been her lover, then surely there
was something in her which would draw her to him through the mere
fancy of such a possibility. Like all men who are largely endowed with
complacent self-satisfaction, he was encased in a hide of conceit too
thick to imagine that with the “obsession” (as he considered it) which
she entertained, might also go the memory of his callous treatment
of her in the past, entailing upon him a possible though indefinable
danger.
She, meanwhile, after he had gone, sat down to think. A long mirror
facing her gave her the reflection of her own exquisite face and
figure--but her expression for the moment was cold and stern, as that
of some avenging goddess. She looked at her hands--the hands her
traitor lover had kissed--and opening a quaint jar of perfume on the
table beside her, she dashed some of its contents over their delicate
whiteness.
“For he has soiled them!” she said--“They are outraged by his touch!”
A deep scorn gathered in her eyes like growing darkness.
“Why should I trouble myself with any vengeance upon him?” she asked
herself inwardly. “A mere lump of sensuality!--a man who considers
no principle save that of his own pleasure, and has no tenderness
or memory for me as the ‘old’ spinster whom he thought (and still
thinks) was drowned in Devon!--what is he to me but an utterly
contemptible atom!--and yet--the only sentiment I seem to be capable
of now is hate!--undying hate, the antithesis of the once undying
love I bore him! The revolt of my soul against him is like a revolt
of light against darkness! Is he not punished enough by the gross
and commonplace domestic life he has made for himself! No!--not
enough!--not enough to hurt him!”
She drew a long breath, conscious of the power which filled her body
and spirit,--a power which now for the first time seemed to herself
terrific. She knew there was pent up within her a lightning force
which was swift to attract and equally swift to destroy.
“Those old Greek stories of gods and goddesses whose unveiled glory
slew the mortals who dared to doubt them were quite true prophecies,”
she thought--“only they did not penetrate far enough into the myth
to discover the real scientific truth of how the mortal could put on
immortality. Not even now, though the fusion and transmutation of
elements every day discloses more and more marvels of Nature, they have
not tested the possibilities of change which science may bring about in
the composition of human bodies--that is for the future to discover and
determine.”
At that moment Mrs. Beresford entered the room with a telegram.
“For you, Diana,” she said. “It has just come.”
Opening it, Diana read the message it brought.
“Professor Chauvet has died suddenly. Has left you his sole heiress.
Please meet me in Paris as soon as possible to settle business. Your
presence necessary. Reply Hôtel Windsor.--Dimitrius.”
The paper dropped from her hands. She had forgotten Professor Chauvet
altogether! The crusty yet kindly old Professor who had asked her to
marry him--she had actually forgotten him! And now--he was dead! She
sat amazed and stricken, till the gentle voice of Mrs. Beresford roused
her.
“Anything wrong, my dear?”
“Oh, no!--yet--yes!--perhaps a little! A friend has died suddenly--very
suddenly--and he has made me his heiress.”
Mrs. Beresford smiled a little.
“Well, isn’t that good news?”
For the first time since her “awakening” under the fiery ordeal of
Dimitrius’s experiment, she experienced a painful thrill of real
“feeling.”
“No--I am sorry,” she said. “I thought I should never feel sorry for
anything--but I forgot and neglected this friend--and perhaps--if I had
remembered, he might not have died.”
A beautiful softness and tenderness filled her eyes, and Mrs. Beresford
thought she had never seen or imagined any creature half so lovely as
she looked.
“We must go to Paris,” she said. “We can easily start to-morrow. I will
answer this wire--and then write.”
She pencilled a brief reply:
“Deeply grieved. Will come as soon as possible.--Diana.”
--and ringing the bell, bade the servant who answered the summons take
it to the telegraph office and send it off without delay.
“Yes--I am very sorry!” she said again to Mrs. Beresford--“I reproach
myself for needless cruelty.”
Mrs. Beresford, mild-eyed and grey-haired, looked at her half timidly,
half affectionately.
“I’m afraid, my dear, you _are_ cruel!--just a little!” she said. “You
make havoc in so many hearts!--and you do not seem to care!”
Diana shrugged her shoulders.
“Why should I care?” she retorted. “The havoc you speak of, is merely
the selfish desire of men to possess what seems to them attractive--it
goes no deeper!”
Then, noting Mrs. Beresford’s rather pained expression, she smiled. “I
seem hard, don’t I? But I have had experience----”
“You? My dear, you are so young!” and her kindly chaperone took her
hand and patted it soothingly. “When you are older you will think very
differently! When you love someone----”
“When I love!”--and the beautiful eyes shone glorious as
light-beams--“Ah, then! Why then--‘the sun will grow cold, and the
leaves of the Judgment Book will most certainly be unrolled!’”
That night she came to a sudden resolve to put away all her formerly
cherished ideas of revenging herself on Reginald Cleeve. Standing
before her mirror she saw her own beauty transfigured into a yet finer
delicacy when this determination became crystallized, as it were, in
her consciousness.
“What is my positive mind?” she asked herself. “It is a pole of
attraction, which has through the forces of air, fire and water learned
to polarise atoms into beautiful forms. It organises itself; but it is
also a centre which radiates power over a world of visible effects. So
that if I choose I can vitalise or _de_vitalise other forms. In this
way I could inflict punishment on the traitor who spoiled my former
life--but I live another life, now, in which he has no part. This being
so, why should I descend to pulverise base clay with pure fire? He will
meet his punishment now without any further effort of mine, beyond that
which I demand of justice!”
She raised her hand appealingly, as though she were a priestess
invoking a deity,--then, turning to her writing-table, she penned the
following lines:
“To Reginald Cleeve.
“I am summoned unexpectedly to Paris on business,--and the chances are
that I shall not see you again. All that I have told you is absolutely
true, no matter how much you may disbelieve the story. I am the woman
you once pretended to love, and whose life you spoiled,--and I am the
woman whom you love now, or (to put it roughly) whom you desire, but
whose life you can never spoil again. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’--and
when you read this, it is probable I shall have gone away, which is
a good thing for your peace, and--safety. You have a wife,--you are
the ‘father of a family’--be content with the domestic happiness
you have chosen, and fulfil the responsibilities you have accepted.
Good-bye!--and think of me no more except as the ‘old’
“Diana.”
Now when this letter reached Captain the Honourable Reginald Cleeve
at his club, to which it was addressed, and where he had dined on the
evening of the day it was posted, which was the next but one to the day
of his interview with Diana, it was brought to him in the smoking-room,
and as his eyes ran over it he uttered an involuntary oath of such
force that even men inured to violent language looked up, amused and
inquisitive.
“What’s up?” asked an acquaintance seated near him.
“Oh, nothing! A dun!” he answered,--then, calming down, he lit a cigar.
After a few puffs at it he took up a newspaper--read a paragraph or
two--then laid it down.
“By the way,” he said, to the man who had spoken--“the famous
beauty--Diana May--is off to Paris.”
These words created a certain stir in the smoking-room. Several men
looked up.
“Oh, well! All lovely women go to Paris for their clothes!”
“Pardon!” said a dark-visaged young man, coming forward from a corner
where he had been writing a letter, and speaking with a foreign
accent--“Did I hear you mention a lady’s name--Diana May?”
Cleeve glanced him over with military frigidity.
“I did mention that name--yes.”
“Excuse me!--I am a stranger in London, and a friend has made me an
honorary member of this club for a short time--I knew a Miss Diana May
in Geneva--permit me----” And he proffered his visiting-card, on which
was inscribed:
“_Marchese Luigi Farnese._”
“I met Miss May,” he continued, “at the house of a very distinguished
Russian scientist, Dr. Féodor Dimitrius. She had come from England on
a visit to his mother, so I was informed. But I had an idea at the
time that she had arrived in answer to an advertisement he had put in
the Paris newspapers for a lady assistant,--of course I may have been
wrong. She was a very bright, rather clever middle-aged person----”
“The Miss May I spoke of just now,” interpolated Cleeve, “is quite a
young girl--not more than eighteen or nineteen.”
“Oh, then!”--and Farnese made a profoundly apologetic bow--“it cannot
be the same. The lady I met was--ah!--thirty-five or so--perhaps forty.
She left Geneva very suddenly, and I have been trying to trace her ever
since.”
“May I ask why?” inquired Cleeve.
“Certainly! I have for long been interested in the scientific
investigations of Dr. Dimitrius--he is a very mysterious person,
and I fancied he might be trying some experiment on this lady, Miss
May. She gave me no idea of such a thing--she was quite a normal,
cheerful person,--still I had my suspicions and I was curious about
it. She went with him and his mother to winter at Davos Platz--I was
unable to follow them there, as I had a pressure of business--but
I heard from a friend that Miss May was the ‘belle’ of the season.
This rather surprised me, as she was not young enough to be a ‘belle’
unless”--here he paused, and uttered the next words with singular
emphasis--“Dimitrius had made her so.”
Cleeve uttered a sharp exclamation and then checked himself.
“This is not an age of fairy tales,” he said curtly.
“No--it is not, but it is an age of science, in which fairy tales are
realised,” rejoined Farnese. “But pray excuse me!--I am detaining
you--you could not by chance give me the address of this young lady you
speak of?--the Miss Diana May you know?”
“I do not consider myself entitled to do so,” answered Cleeve, coldly,
“without her consent.”
Farnese bowed.
“I entirely understand! If you should see her, you will, perhaps, do
me the kindness to mention my name and ask if she has ever heard it
before?”
“I will certainly do that,” agreed Cleeve,--whereupon they parted,
Captain the Honourable with his mind in a giddy whirl, and his passions
at fever heat. Come what would he must see Diana before she went to
Paris! He must ask her about this Dimitrius,--for the story he had just
heard seemed to hang together with her own fantastic “obsession!” But
no!--ten thousand times no!--it was not, it could not be possible that
the “old” Diana could thus have been miraculously transformed! Even
Science must have its limits! He glanced at his watch. It was past nine
o’clock,--very late for a call--yet he would risk it. Taking a cab, he
was driven with all speed to Diana’s flat,--the servant who opened the
door to him looked at him in surprise.
“Miss May and Mrs. Beresford have gone to Paris,” she said. “They left
this evening by the night boat train.”
He retreated, baffled and inwardly furious. For one moment he was
recklessly moved to follow them across Channel next morning--then he
remembered, with rather an angry shock, that he was “the father of a
family.” Convention stepped in and held up a warning finger.
“No--it wouldn’t do,” he ruminated, vexedly. “She”--here he alluded
to his fat wife--“she would make the devil’s own row, and I have
enough of her sulks as it is. I’d better do nothing,--and just wait
my chance. But--that exquisite Diana! _What_ is she? I _must_ know!
I must be off with the ‘old’ love, before I’m on with the new! But
_is_ she the ‘old’? That’s the puzzle. Is she the ‘old,’ or a young
Diana?” This was a question which was destined never to be answered,
so far as he was concerned. Diana had gone from him,--gone in that
swift, irrecoverable way which happens when one soul, advancing onward
to higher planes of power, is compelled to leave another of grosser
make (even though that other were lover or friend) to wallow in the
styes of sensual and material life. She, clothed in her vesture of
fire and light, as radiant as any spirit of legendary lore, was as
far removed from the clay man of low desires as the highest star from
the deepest earth. And though he did not know this, and never would
have been able, had he known, to realise the forceful vitality of her
existence, the same strange sense of physical weakness, tiredness and
general incapacity which had before alarmed him came upon him now with
such overwhelming weight that he could hardly drag his limbs across
the fashionable square in which his own house was situated. A great
helplessness possessed him,--and a thought, bitter as wormwood and
sharp as flame, flashed through his brain: “I am getting old!” It was a
thought he always put away from him--but just now it bore down upon him
with a kind of thunderous gloom. Yes--he was “getting old,”--he, who
had more or less contemptuously considered the “age” of the woman he
had callously thrown over sufficient cause for the rupture,--he, too,
was likely to be left out in the cold by the hurrying tide of warmer,
quicker, youthful life. The vision of the radiant eyes, the exquisite
features, the rose-leaf skin, and the supple, graceful form of the
marvellous Diana who so persistently declared herself to be his former
betrothed, floated before him in tempting, tantalising beauty,--and as
he opened his own house-door with his latch-key to enter that abode of
domestic bliss where his unwieldy wife talked commonplaces all day long
and bored him to death, he uttered something like a groan.
“Whatever her fancy or craze may be,” he said, “she is young! Young and
perfectly beautiful! It is I who am old!”
EPILOGUE
It was night in Paris,--a heavy night, laden with the almost tropical
heat and languor common to the end of an unusually warm summer. The
street-lamps twinkled dimly through vapour which seemed to ooze upwards
from the ground, like smoke from the fissures of a volcano, and men
walked along listlessly with heads uncovered to the faint and doubtful
breeze, some few occasionally pausing to glance at the sky, the aspect
of which was curiously divided between stars and clouds, brilliancy
and blackness. From the southern side of the horizon a sombre mass of
purple grey shadows crept slowly and stealthily onward, blotting out by
gradual degrees the silvery glittering of Orion and drawing a nun-like
veil over the full-orbed beauty of the moon, while at long intervals
a faint roll of thunder suggested the possibility of an approaching
storm. But the greater part of the visible heavens remained fair and
calm, some of the larger planets sparkling lustrously with strange,
flashing fire-gleams of sapphire and gold, and seeming to palpitate
like immense jewels swung pendant in the vast blue dome of air.
In the spacious marble court of a certain great house in the Avenue
Bois de Boulogne, the oppressive sultriness of the night was tempered
by the delicious coolness of a fountain in full play which flung a
quivering column of snow-white against the darkness and tinkled its
falling drops into a bronze basin below with a musical softness as of
far-distant sleigh-bells. The court itself was gracefully built after
Athenian models,--its slender Ionic columns supported a domed roof
which by daylight would have shown an exquisite sculptured design, but
which now was too dimly perceived for even its height to be guessed.
Beyond the enclosure stretched the vague outline of a garden which
adjoined the Bois, and here there were tall trees and drooping branches
that moved mysteriously now and then, as though touched by an invisible
finger-tip. Within each corner of the court great marble vases stood,
brimming over with growing blossoms,--pale light streaming from an open
window or door in the house shed a gleam on some statue of a god or
goddess half hidden among flowers,--and here in this cool quietness of
stately and beautiful surroundings sat, or rather reclined, Diana, on
a cushioned bench, her head turned towards her sole companion, Féodor
Dimitrius. He sat in a lounge chair opposite to her, and his dark and
brilliant eyes studied her fair features with wistful gravity.
“I think I have told you all,” he said, speaking in slow, soft tones.
“Poor Chauvet’s death was sudden, but from his written instructions I
fancy he was not unprepared. He has no relatives,--and he must have
found great consolation in making his will in your favour. For he cared
very greatly for you,--he told me he had asked you to marry him.”
Diana moved a little restlessly. As she did so a rosy flash glittered
from a great jewel she wore round her neck,--the famous “Eye of
Rajuna,” whose tragic history she had heard from Chauvet himself.
“Yes,” she answered--“That is true. But--I forgot!”
“You forgot?” he echoed, wonderingly. “You forgot a proposal of
marriage? And yet--when you came to me first in Geneva you thought love
was enough for everything,--your heart was hungry for love----”
“When I had a heart--yes!” she said. “But now I have none. And I do
not hunger for what does not exist! I am sorry I forgot the kind
Professor. But I did,--completely! And that he should have left me all
he possessed is almost a punishment!”
“You should not regard it as such,” he answered. “It is hardly your
fault if you forgot. Your thoughts are, perhaps, elsewhere?” He
paused,--but she said nothing. “As I have told you,” he went on,
“Chauvet has left you an ample fortune, together with this house and
all it contains--its unique library, its pictures and curios, to say
nothing of his famous collection of jewels, worth many thousands of
pounds--and as everything is in perfect order you will have no trouble.
Personally, I had no idea he was such a wealthy man.”
She was still silent, looking at him more or less critically. He felt
her eyes upon him, and some impulse stung him into sudden fervour.
“You look indifferent,” he said, “and no doubt you _are_ indifferent.
Your nature now admits of no emotion. But, so far as you are woman,
your circumstances are little changed. You are as you were when you
first became my ‘subject’--‘of mature years, and alone in the world
without claims on your time or your affections.’ Is it not so?”
A faint, mysterious smile lifted the corners of her lovely mouth.
“It is so!” she answered.
“You are alone in the world,--alone, alone, alone!” he repeated with a
kind of fierce intensity. “Alone!--for I know that neither your father
nor your mother recognise you. Am I right or wrong?”
Still smiling, she bent her head.
“Right, of course!” she murmured, with delicate irony. “How could _you_
be wrong!”
“Your own familiar friend will have none of you,” he went on, with
almost angry emphasis. “To the world you once knew, you are dead! The
man who was your lover--the man who, as you told me, spoilt your life
and on whom you seek to be revenged----”
She lifted one hand with an interrupting gesture.
“That is finished,” she said. “I seek vengeance no longer. No man is
worth it! Besides, I _am_ avenged.”
She half rose from her reclining attitude, and he waited for her next
word.
“I am avenged!” she went on, in thrilling accents--“And in a way that
satisfies me. My lover that was,--never a true lover at best,--is my
lover still--but with such limitations as are torture to a man whose
only sense of love is--Desire! My beauty fills him with longing,--the
thought of me ravages his soul and body--it occupies every thought and
every dream!--and with this passion comes the consciousness of age.
Age!--the great breakdown!--the end of all for _him_!--I have willed
that he shall feel its numbing approach each day,--that he shall know
the time is near when his step shall fail, his sight grow dim,--when
the rush of youthful life shall pass him by and leave him desolate.
Yes!--I am avenged!--he is ‘old enough now to realise that we are
better apart!’”
Her eyes glowed like stars,--her whole face was radiant. Dimitrius
gazed at her almost sternly.
“You are pitiless!” he said.
She laughed.
“As _he_ was,--yes!”
And rising to her full height, she stood up like a queen. She wore a
robe of dull amber stuff interwoven with threads of gold,--a small
circlet of diamonds glittered in her hair, and Chauvet’s historic
Eastern jewel, the “Eye of Rajuna,” flamed like fire on her white neck.
“Féodor Dimitrius,” she said,--and her voice had such a marvellously
sweet intonation that he felt it penetrate through every nerve--“You
say, and you say rightly, that ‘so far as I am woman’--my circumstances
are not changed from what they were when I first came to you in Geneva.
But only ‘so far as I am woman.’ Now--how do you know I am woman at
all?”
He lifted himself in his chair, gripping both arms of it with clenched
nervous hands. His dark eyes flashed a piercing inquiry into hers.
“What do you mean?” he half whispered. “What--what would you make me
believe?”
She smiled.
“Oh, marvellous man of science!” she exclaimed--“Must I teach you your
own discovery? You, who have studied and mastered the fusion of light
and air with elemental forces and the invisible whirl of electrons
with perpetually changing forms, must I, your subject, explain to
you what you have done? You have wrested a marvellous secret from
Nature--you can unmake and remake the human body, freeing it from all
gross substance, as a sculptor can mould and unmould a statue,--and do
you not see that you have made of me a new creature, no longer of mere
mortal clay, but of an ethereal matter which has never walked on earth
before?--and with which earth has nothing in common? What have such as
I to do with such base trifles as human vengeance or love?”
He sprang up and approached her.
“Diana,” he said slowly--“If this is true,--and may God be the
arbiter!--one thing in your former circumstances is altered--you are
not ‘without claims on your time and your affections.’ _I_ claim both!
I have made you as you are!--you are mine!”
She smiled proudly and retreated a step or two.
“I am no more yours,” she said, “than are the elements of which your
science has composed the new and youthful vesture of my unchanging
Soul! I admit no claim. When I served you as your ‘subject,’ you were
ready to sacrifice my life to your ambition; now when you are witness
to the triumph of your ‘experiment,’ you would grasp what you consider
as your lawful prize. Self!--all Self! But I have a Self as well--and
it is a Self independent of all save its own elements.”
He caught her hands suddenly.
“Love is in all elements,” he said. “There would be no world, no
universe without love!”
Her eyes met his as steadily as stars.
“There is no such thing as Love in all mankind!” she said. “The
race is cruel, destructive, murderous. What men call love is merely
sex-attraction--such as is common to all the animal world. Children
are to be born in order that man may be perpetuated. _Why_, one cannot
imagine! His civilisations perish--he himself is the merest grain
of dust in the universe,--unless he learns to subdue his passions
and progresses to a higher order of being on this earth, which he
never will. All things truly are possible, save man’s own voluntary
uplifting. And without this uplifting there is no such thing as Love.”
He still held her hands.
“May I not endeavour to reach this height?” he asked, and his voice
shook a little. “Have patience with me, Diana! You have beauty, wealth,
youth----”
She interrupted him.
“You forget! ‘Mature years’ are in my brain and heart,--I am not really
young.”
“You _are_,” he rejoined--“Younger than you can as yet realise. You see
your own outward appearance, but you have had no time yet to test your
inward emotions----”
“I have none!” she said.
He dropped her hands.
“Not even an angel’s attribute--mercy?”
A faint sigh stirred her bosom where the great “Eye of Rajuna” shone
like a red star.
“Perhaps!----” she said--“I do not know--it may be possible!”
* * * * *
To-day in Paris one of the loveliest women in the world holds
undisputed sway as a reigning beauty. The “old,” now the “young” Diana
is the envy of her sex and the despair of men. Years pass over her and
leave no change in her fair face or radiant eyes,--a creature of light
and magnetic force, she lives for the most part the life of a student
and recluse, and any entertaining of society in her house is rare,
though the men of learning and science who were friends of Professor
Chauvet are always welcomed by their adorable hostess, who to them
has become a centre of something like worship. So far as she herself
is concerned, she is untouched by either admiration or flattery. Each
day finds her further removed from the temporary joys and sorrows of
humanity, and more enwrapt in a strange world of unknown experience
to which she seems to belong. She is happy, because she has forgotten
all that might have made her otherwise. She feels neither love nor
hate: and Féodor Dimitrius, now alone in the world, his mother having
passed away suddenly in her sleep, wanders near her, watchfully, but
more or less aimlessly, knowing that his beautiful “experiment” has
out-mastered him, and that in the mysterious force wherewith his
science has endowed her, she has gone beyond his power. His “claim”
upon her lessens day by day, rendering him helpless to contend with
what he imagined he had himself created. The Marchese Farnese, catching
a passing glimpse of her in Paris, became so filled with amazement
that he spread all sorts of rumours respecting her real “age” and the
“magic art” of Dimitrius, none of which were believed, of course, but
which added to the mystery surrounding her--though she herself never
condescended to notice them. To this day she holds herself apart and
invisible to all save those whom she personally chooses to receive. No
man can boast of any favour at her hands,--not even Dimitrius. And,--as
was said at the beginning of this veracious narrative--there is no end
for Diana May. She lives as the light lives,--fair and emotionless,--as
all may live who master the secret of living,--a secret which, though
now apparently impregnable, shall yield itself to those, who, before
very long, will grasp the Flaming Sword and “take and eat of the fruit
of the Tree of Life.” The Sword turns every way--but the blossom is
behind the blade. And in this Great Effort neither the love of man nor
the love of woman have any part, nor any propagation of an imperfect
race,--for those who would reach the goal must relinquish all save the
realisation of that “new heaven and new earth” of splendid and lasting
youth and vitality when “old things are passed away.”
THE END
Transcriber's Notes
A number of typographical errors were corrected silently.
Cover image is in the public domain.