# A Christmas Garland/Sorrows of Millicent

A parody of Marie Corelli.

## The Sorrows of Millicent: A Christmas Cameo

By
M*rie C*r*lli
A woman was hastening through the frozen streets of London on the Eve of Christmas last. Over her head and all around her slender frame was stretched a threadbare shawl, tattered in places and with edges sadly frayed. Little could be seen of her face, save that it was chiselled in the delicate way so rare among our "upper" classes. She had dark, lustrous eyes, charged with the awakening wonder of an earlier world, and which were fringed with long lashes. To her breast she hugged something that was very small, very still, precious exceedingly. Ever and again she sought to wrap her shawl more closely round it, lest some stray, chill snowflake should alight upon it. Closed carriages with gaudy coronets smeared over the panels dashed past and covered her with mud. Several "Mashers," who had strutted out of their clubs with cigars between their coarse lips, drawled out as she passed, "By George! there's a doosidly pwetty gal." But the Woman was too inured to the insults of the world to heed them. The snow was very cold to her feet, though overhead the sky was now clear and star-spangled, and over its vast surface floated a moon of silver unalloyed.
As the woman entered the hallowed precincts of Grosvenor Square she looked up eagerly at the numbers, as one searching for a particular house. At last she came to the portico of No. 205. Through the open door came a riot of light from numerous electric globes, and down the stone steps was unrol1ed a drugget, for fear the high-heeled shoes of the ladies and gentlemen should be contaminated by contact with the paving-stones. Lightly, and as to the manner born, the woman ascended the steps. The lackeys sought to bar her entrance, but one look from her eyes was enough to show them, pampered fools though they were, that she was, in the true sense of the word, a lady. The odour of rich cooking told her where the dining-room was. She entered it.
At the foot of the table sat a corpulent man with a crimson countenance—Blackheart, the great critic. At the head sat his connubial spouse, a timid, bullied-looking lady. And down each side were ranged a great company of their aristocratic guests. They were just falling to on the entremets, when the strange, ill-clad figure, swept into the room.
Blackheart dropped his knife and fork with an oath. "'Ow dare you admit that—that person?" he stormed to his servants. "Turn 'er hout!"
"I must request you to suffer me to speak, sir," said woman in a clear, sweet voice of exquisite refinement. "You know well enough who I am. It may be that you, ladies and gentlemen, do not. I am her who your host has neglected and whose being he has ignored. I have come to force him to recognize me, on this sacred night, and to recognize that which I carry in my arms, dearer than life to me! I only ask for justice!"
Here she threw back her shawl from her shoulders, and held out towards the master of the house the precious burden she had been carrying--a little, cloth-bound burden with a gold design on the front cover, and bearing the title, "The Coat of Many Colours, by Millicent Coral, 15th edition." Millicent—for she it was!—stood there before the company in an attitude of sweetest, proudest humility. It was seen, now that she had discarded her shawl, that she was clad in rich black velvet, with a point-lace fichu round her snow-white throat. The guests were silent in her marvellous presence. Only Blackheart—who had received a large douceur not to review her book and been promised a royalty of 15 per cent. on every copy not sold after the hundredth thousand—was unmoved.
"Be hoff with you!" he shouted. But his plethoric tones were drowned in a great unanimous roar of voices from without. "Do justice to Millicent Coral!" they were crying in a chorus as of thunder. The British Public had assembled in the Square, warm and staunch of heart, and were not going to be trifled with. Through the windows came a volley of stones and other missives, crashing down among the shivered plates and glasses. The hostess and her ashen-faced guests fled screaming to an upper room. Blackheart alone remained, sheltering himself beneath the table. Millicent walked fearlessly to the window, unheeding of the stones hurtling around her, but which always glanced aside from her, and, falling at her feet, turned to coruscating gems—pearls, rubies, and other precious jewels. She held up her hand smilingly. and called upon her Public to cease, which they straightway did.
Blackheart, who feared and hated the Public as all critics do, would not come out from his shelter. But his heart was still hard as the stones he so feared.
"Not one bloomin' line will you get hout of me for your precious book," he hissed through a hole in the table-cloth.
"I have sought to move you," said Millicent calmly, "by humbling myself. My Public has threatened your life, and I have saved you. There is yet one other persuasion."
She drew from her bosom that which she had received that morning—an autograph letter from the Secretary of a Great Personage. "His Royal Highness," she read aloud, "directs me to acknowledges the receipt of your book, and to say that he anticipates reading it with much pleasure."
There was a great silence beneath the table. The critic's soul had been shaken with terror and amazement to its utter depths. A Greater than he had spoken with no uncertain voice. Who was he (Blackheart) that he could fly in the face of the Highest Critic in the Land?
He crawled out through the legs of a chair, and held out his hands for the copy of Millicent's book.
"I do not," said the young Authoress, "give away copies for review. You must purchase it in the ordinary manner. Six shillings net."
Blackheart produced the money with a good grace, received the book trom Millicent's fair hands, and sat down, blue pencil in hand, to read it for review.
And Millicent, in all her young and radiant beauty, swept into the hall, and passed through the bowing footmen to the door. And when the Public outside saw their dear one on the steps they raised a wild cheer that rent the cerulean arc of heaven; but scarce did they dare to look upon her countenance, for it was as the face of an Angel.
* ↑ I have purposely given a false number here. The Public, however, will not be slow to guess the real one.--M C.
* ↑ A fact.--M. C.