Treasure of Heaven

Marie Corelli

Description

This touching and thought-provoking romance from British novelist Marie Corelli was a blockbuster bestseller, with a record-breaking 100,000 copies sold in a single day. Millionaire David Helmsley decides he's had enough of the trappings of his cushy existence and disappears, assuming the identity of a lowly street tramp. A chance encounter with a kind woman, Mary Deane, changes his jaundiced view of the world.

Sujets

• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 décembre 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776594955
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE TREASURE OF HEAVEN
A ROMANCE OF RICHES
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MARIE CORELLI
 
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The Treasure of Heaven A Romance of Riches First published in 1906 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-495-5 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-496-2 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Author's Note Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Endnotes
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To Bertha 'A faithful friend is better than gold.'
Author's Note
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By the special request of the Publishers, a portrait of myself, taken inthe spring of this year, 1906, forms the Frontispiece to the presentvolume. I am somewhat reluctant to see it so placed, because it hasnothing whatever to do with the story which is told in the followingpages, beyond being a faithful likeness of the author who is responsiblefor this, and many other previous books which have had the good fortuneto meet with a friendly reception from the reading public. Moreover, Iam not quite able to convince myself that my pictured personality canhave any interest for my readers, as it has always seemed to me that anauthor's real being is more disclosed in his or her work than in anyportrayed presentment of mere physiognomy.
But—owing to the fact that various gross, and I think I may saylibellous and fictitious misrepresentations of me have been freely andunwarrantably circulated throughout Great Britain, the Colonies, andAmerica, by certain "lower" sections of the pictorial press, which, witha zeal worthy of a better and kinder cause, have striven by this meansto alienate my readers from me,—it appears to my Publishers advisablethat an authentic likeness of myself, as I truly am to-day, should nowbe issued in order to prevent any further misleading of the public byfraudulent inventions. The original photograph from which Messrs. Dodd,Mead & Co. have reproduced the present photogravure, was taken by Mr. G.Gabell of Eccleston Street, London, who, at the time of my submittingmyself to his camera, was not aware of my identity. I used, for thenonce, the name of a lady friend, who arranged that the proofs of theportrait should be sent to her at various different addresses,—and itwas not till this "Romance of Riches" was on the verge of publicationthat I disclosed the real position to the courteous artist himself. ThatI thus elected to be photographed as an unknown rather than a knownperson was in order that no extra pains should be taken on my behalf,but that I should be treated just as an ordinary stranger would betreated, with no less, but at the same time certainly no more, care.
I may add, in conclusion, for the benefit of those few who may feel anyfurther curiosity on the subject, that no portraits resembling me in anyway are published anywhere, and that invented sketches purporting topass as true likenesses of me, are merely attempts to obtain money fromthe public on false pretences. One picture of me, taken in my own houseby a friend who is an amateur photographer, was reproduced some time agoin the Strand Magazine , The Boudoir , Cassell's Magazine , and TheRapid Review ; but beyond that, and the present one in this volume, nophotographs of me are on sale in any country, either in shops or onpostcards. My objection to this sort of "picture popularity" has alreadybeen publicly stated, and I here repeat and emphasise it. And I ventureto ask my readers who have so generously encouraged me by their warm andconstant appreciation of my literary efforts, to try and understand thespirit in which the objection is made. It is simply that to myself thepersonal "Self" of me is nothing, and should be, rightly speaking,nothing to any one outside the circle of my home and my intimatefriends; while my work and the keen desire to improve in that work, sothat by my work alone I may become united in sympathy and love to myreaders, whoever and wherever they may be, constitutes for me theEverything of life.
MARIE CORELLI Stratford-on-Avon July, 1906
Chapter I
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London,—and a night in June. London, swart and grim, semi-shrouded in awarm close mist of mingled human breath and acrid vapour steaming upfrom the clammy crowded streets,—London, with a million twinklinglights gleaming sharp upon its native blackness, and looking, to adreamer's eye, like some gigantic Fortress, built line upon line andtower upon tower,—with huge ramparts raised about it frowningly asthough in self-defence against Heaven. Around and above it the deep skyswept in a ring of sable blue, wherein thousands of stars were visible,encamped after the fashion of a mighty army, with sentinel planetstaking their turns of duty in the watching of a rebellious world. Asulphureous wave of heat half asphyxiated the swarms of people who werehurrying to and fro in that restless undetermined way which is such apredominating feature of what is called a London "season," and thegeneral impression of the weather was, to one and all, conveyed in asense of discomfort and oppression, with a vague struggling expectancyof approaching thunder. Few raised their eyes beyond the thick warm hazewhich hung low on the sooty chimney-pots, and trailed sleepily along inthe arid, dusty parks. Those who by chance looked higher, saw that theskies above the city were divinely calm and clear, and that not a cloudbetokened so much as the shadow of a storm.
The deep bell of Westminster chimed midnight, that hour of picturesqueghostly tradition, when simple village maids shudder at the thought oftraversing a dark lane or passing a churchyard, and when country folksof old-fashioned habits and principles are respectably in bed and forthe most part sleeping. But so far as the fashionable "West End" wasconcerned, it might have been midday. Everybody assuming to be Anybody,was in town. The rumble of carriages passing to and fro wasincessant,—the swift whirr and warning hoot of coming and going motorvehicles, the hoarse cries of the newsboys, and the general insect-likedrone and murmur of feverish human activity were as loud as at any busytime of the morning or the afternoon. There had been a Court atBuckingham Palace,—and a "special" performance at the Opera,—and onaccount of these two functions, entertainments were going on at almostevery fashionable house in every fashionable quarter. The publicrestaurants were crammed with luxury-loving men and women,—men andwomen to whom the mere suggestion of a quiet dinner in their own homeswould have acted as a menace of infinite boredom,—and these gilded andrefined eating-houses were now beginning to shoot forth their bundles ofwell-dressed, well-fed folk into the many and various conveyanceswaiting to receive them. There was a good deal of needless shouting, andmuch banter between drivers and policemen. Now and again the melancholywhine of a beggar's plea struck a discordant note through thesmooth-toned compliments and farewells of hosts and their departingguests. No hint of pause or repose was offered in the ever-changingscene of uneasy and impetuous excitation of movement, save where, far upin the clear depths of space, the glittering star-battalions of awronged and forgotten God held their steadfast watch and kept theirhourly chronicle. London with its brilliant "season" seemed the onlyliving fact worth recognising; London, with its flaring noisy streets,and its hot summer haze interposed like a grey veil between itself andthe higher vision. Enough for most people it was to see theveil,—beyond it the view is always too vast and illimitable for thelittle vanities of ordinary mortal minds.
Amid all the din and turmoil of fashion and folly seeking its own in thegreat English capital at the midnight hour, a certain corner of anexclusively fashionable quarter seemed strangely quiet and sequestered,and this was the back of one of the row of palace-like dwellings knownas Carlton House Terrace. Occasionally a silent-wheeled hansom,brougham, or flashing motor-car sped swiftly along the Mall, towardswhich the wide stone balcony of the house projected,—or the heavyfootsteps of a policeman walking on his beat crunched the gravel of thepath beneath, but the general atmosphere of the place was expressive ofsolitude and even of gloom. The imposing evidences of great wealth,written in bold headlines on the massive square architecture of thewhole block of huge mansions, only intensified the austere sombreness oftheir appearance, and the fringe of sad-looking trees edging the roadbelow sent a faint waving shadow in the lamplight against the coldwalls, as though some shuddering consciousness of happier woodlandscenes had suddenly moved them to a vain regret. The haze of heat layvery thickly here, creeping along with slow stealth like a sluggishstream, and a suffocating odour suggestive of some subtle anæstheticweighed the air with a sense of nausea and depression. It was difficultto realise that this condition of climate was actually summer in itsprime—summer with all its glowing abundance of flower and foliage asseen in fresh green lanes and country dells,—rather did it seem a dullnightmare of what summer might be in a prison among criminals undergoingpunishment. The house with the wide stone balcony looked particularlyprison-like, even more so than some of its neighbours, perhaps becau