‘It has been frequently rumoured that the real “Dona Sol” of the
“Ernani” who has been so long delighting the histrionic world, is a
well-known lady novelist, who has been lifted into far more prominence
that her literary capabilities would ever have given her, by her
marriage into the aristocracy with a certain gallant Guards officer.
The “Dona” in question has long been considered “as chaste as ice, as
pure as snow,” but ice and snow are prone to melt in the heat of an
ardent passion, and the too evident ardour of the “Ernani” in this case
has, we hear, won him his cause, with the result that the “ears of the
groundlings” will shortly be tickled with a curious scandal.’
‘After all,’ muttered Carlyon, as he thrust this in an envelope, ‘it’s
much worse that she, as a woman, should be coupled with Paul Valdis,
than that I as a man should amuse myself with Marina. She is
ridiculously inconsistent; she ought to know that a man in this world
does as he likes,—a woman does as she must. The two things are totally
different. Now, I shall have to wait till she telegraphs her address
before I can send this. What an infernal nuisance!’
He betook himself to his usual consolation—a cigar and puffed away at it
crossly, wondering what he should do with himself. He was sick of La
Marina for the time being—there were no race-meetings on, and he felt
that to be thus left to his own resources was a truly unkind
dispensation of Providence. He had a very limited brain capacity, his
one idea of life being to get amusement out of it somehow. Perpetual
amusement is apt to tire; but of this the votaries of so-called pleasure
never think, till they are flung back upon themselves exhausted.
Carlyon would have been in his right place had he been born as a noble
of high rank in ancient Pompeii—going to the baths, having his hair
combed and his garments scented; wearing fresh chaplets of flowers round
his neck, being fed on the rarest delicacies and drinking the costliest
wines, and dividing his affections between several of the prettiest
dancing girls. Such an existence would have suited him perfectly, and
it is quite possible that when Vesuvius blazed forth its convincing
representation of the Day of Judgment, he would have fronted his fate
with the stern composure of the immortal ‘Roman soldier’; for it is
precisely such pampered persons who are the best possible food for
flame, or powder and shot; and who generally, as though moved by some
instinctive perception of the worthlessness of their lives to the world,
meet death with equanimity.
In the interim, while her husband was preparing what he considered a
Parthian shot for her in the way of the press-cutting from the society
scandal bill called _Honesty_, Delicia had, by the merest chance, bought
the paper and read the paragraph on her way down to Broadstairs. She was
a woman who never wasted time about anything, and on arriving at her
destination she enclosed the paper in an envelope to her lawyers, with
the brief instruction appended—:
‘Insist on immediate retraction and apology. If refused, take
proceedings.’
This done, she dismissed the matter from her mind with a quickness which
would have been impossible to any woman who was not absolutely innocent
of wrong-doing. A clear conscience is never disturbed by outside
slanders, and a straightforward life is never thrust out of its clean
onward course by a scandalmonger’s sneer. Besides, Delicia’s thoughts
were too much occupied with her broken idols to dwell long on any other
subject of contemplation. All she desired for the moment was rest—a
space of silence in which to think calmly and to brace her spirit up to
the necessary fortitude required for the realisation of what she must
expect to endure for the remainder of her life. She took some quiet
rooms facing the sea, telegraphed her address to her husband, and then
prepared to settle down for a few days of serious meditation. She began
to consider her position with a logical steadiness worthy of any and all
or her ‘dear old Pagans,’ as she called Socrates and the rest of his
school,—and with a mingling of timidity and resolve tried the measure of
her feminine strength, as a warrior might try his weapon, against the
opposing evils which confronted her. The greatest loss that can befall
a woman had befallen her—the loss of love. Her love had been deep and
passionate, but the object of that love had proved himself
unworthy—hence love was dead and would never revive again. This was the
first clause of the argument, and it had to be mastered thoroughly.
Next came the fact that, notwithstanding the death of love, she,
Delicia, was bound to the corpse of that perished passion—bound by the
marriage tie and also by the law, which has generously provided that a
husband may be guilty of infidelity to his wife every day and every hour
of the day, without her having any right to punish or to leave him
unless he treats her with ‘cruelty,’ his unfaithfulness not being judged
by the so admirable law as ‘cruel.’ By no means—oh, no!—not at all!
When it comes to blows, face-scratching and hair-tearing, then ‘cruelty’
can be complained of; but the slow breaking of a heart, the torturing of
delicate nerve-fibres on the rack of mental and moral outrage, the smile
which is an insult, the condescending tolerance which is an affront, the
conventional keeping up of appearances which is a daily lie—all this has
no touch of ‘cruelty’ at all about it—not in the very least!
‘Therefore,’ argued Delicia, with a fine disdain, ‘unless he ever takes
it into his head to beat me, or fire a pistol at me, I have no cause of
complaint against him, and must not complain. Then must I play the
hypocrite and pretend to worship him still? No! That I cannot do; that
I will not do. Perhaps he will agree to a separation—’ she paused and
her face darkened; ‘if I make it financially worth his while!’
It was the evening of her arrival at Broadstairs, and she was walking
along by the shore, Spartan pacing majestically beside her. The
after-glow of the sunken sun rested on the calm sea, and little waves,
dimpling one over the other in long, fine lines, broke on the pebbly
beach with a soft sound as of children’s laughter. Everything was very
peaceful and beautiful, and by degrees her troubled mind became soothed
and gently attuned to the symphonic vibrations of the eternal pulse of
Nature for ever beating in answer to the voice of God. Some strong
emotion in her own soul suddenly stirred and spoke as it were aloud in
accents half-reproachful, half-consoling.
‘What is it you have lost?’ demanded the inward voice. ‘Love? But what
do you understand by love? The transitory gleam of light that falls
upon a fleck of foam and passes? Or the eternal glory of a deepening
day whose summer splendours shall not cease? All that is of the earth
must perish; choose therefore that which is of Heaven, and for which you
were destined when God kindled first within your woman’s soul the fires
of aspiration and endeavour! Nature is unrolled before you like an open
book; humanity, with all its sufferings, needs and hopes, is here for
you to help and comfort; self is a nothing in what you have to do; your
earthly good, your earthly love, your earthly hopes are as the idle wind
in the countings of eternity! Sail by the compass of the Spirit of God
within you; and haply out of darkness, light shall come!’
With dreamy, half-tearful eyes she looked out upon the darkening sea;
the sense or a great solitude, a vast loneliness, encompassed her; and
almost in unconscious appeal she laid her small, delicate, bare hand on
Spartan’s shaggy head, who received the caress with a worshipping
reverence in his brown eyes.
‘It is so hard, Spartan!’ she murmured, ‘So hard for a woman to be quite
alone in the world! To work on, solitary, wearing a bitter laurel-crown
that makes one’s brow ache; to be deprived, for no fault of one’s own,
of all the kisses and endearments so freely bestowed on foolish,
selfish, ungrateful, and frequently unchaste women—to be set apart in
the cold Courts of Fame,—a white statue, with frozen lips and eyes
staring down the illimitable ways of Death—Oh God! is not an hour of
love worth all this chill renown!’
Tears sprang to her eyes and blotted out the view of the darkening
heavens and quiet sea. She turned blindly to move onward, when Spartan
suddenly sprang forward with a deep bark of pleasure, and a man’s voice,
low, and trembling with emotion, said hastily,—
‘Lady Carlyon, may I speak to you? I came after you from town. I
thought I should find you here!’
And looking up amazed, she found herself face to face with Paul Valdis.
*CHAPTER VIII*
For a moment she could not speak; astonishment and a lurking sense of
indignation held her mute. He meanwhile caressing and endeavouring to
soothe Spartan, who frolicked about him in an uncouth dance of joy, went
on quickly,—.
‘I have followed you. I wanted to tell you all. Yesterday afternoon I
saw that paragraph in _Honesty_; and last night I thrashed the writer of
it within an inch of his life!’
She raised her eyes with a faint, deprecating smile.
‘Yes,’ he continued, with an involuntary clenching of his hands, ‘I wish
all the dirty scandalmongers of the Press were as sore and thoroughly
well bruised as he is to-day! This morning I went to the editor of the
paper on which he chiefly works, and told him the true character of the
man he was employing, and how, under the name of “Brown” he was writing
himself up in the press as the “poet” Aubrey Grovelyn, and a complete
exposure of the rascal will be published to-morrow. This done, I drove
straight to your house. The servants told me you had left early for
Broadstairs, and that Lord Carlyon was out. Acting on an impulse, I
came after you. We are preparing for a new piece at my theatre, as I
daresay you have heard, and I am just now at comparative leisure. I
knew nothing of your address, but this is a little place, and I imagined
I should find you somewhere by the sea.’
He stopped abruptly, almost breathlessly, looking at her with a world of
speechless anxiety in his eyes. She met his gaze with a most untroubled
calm.
‘I am afraid I do not quite understand you, Mr Valdis,’ she said gently.
‘What is it you are speaking of? The paragraph in _Honesty_? I have not
given it a thought, I assure you, except to send it to my lawyers. They
will know exactly what to do on my behalf. You have troubled yourself
about it most needlessly. It is very good of you; but I thought you knew
I never paid the slightest attention to what the journals say of me.
They may call me a black woman, or a Cherokee squaw for all I care, and
they may endow me with a dozen husbands and fifty grandchildren—I should
never take the trouble to contradict them!’ She laughed a little, then
regarded him intently. ‘You look quite ill. What have you been doing
with yourself? Don’t imagine I am angry with you for coming—I am
delighted. I was just beginning to feel very lonely and to wish I had a
friend.’
Her lip trembled suspiciously, but she turned her head aside that he
might not see the emotion in her face.
‘I have always been your friend,’ said Valdis, huskily, ‘but—you were
offended with me.’
She sighed.
‘Oh, yes, I was! I am not now. Circumstances alter cases, you know. I
did not want to look bad fortune in the face till I was forced to do so,
and I resented your attempt to tear the bandage from my eyes. But it’s
all right now—I am no longer blind. I wish I were!’
‘It is my turn to say I don’t understand,’ said Valdis, wonderingly. ‘I
thought you would naturally be as annoyed at that insolent paragraph as
I was—and I took instant means to punish—’
‘Oh, the paragraph again!’ murmured Delicia, wearily. ‘What does it
matter? If the newspapers said you were me, or I were you, or that we
had been married and separated, or that we danced a hornpipe together on
the sly whenever we could get a chance, why should we care? Who that
has any common sense cares for the half-crown or five-shilling
paragraphist? And who, having brains at all, pays any attention to
society journalism?’
‘Brains or no brains,’ said Valdis, hotly, ‘it does one good to thrash a
liar now and then, whether he be in journalism or out of it, and I have
given Mr Brown, _alias_ Aubrey Grovelyn, good cause to remember me this
time. I only hope he’ll have sufficient spirit left to summon me for
assault, that I may defend myself and state openly in a court of justice
what a precious rascal he is!’
‘Aubrey Grovelyn!’ echoed Delicia, with a half smile, ‘why, that’s the
man the press has been “booming” lately, isn’t it? Calling him a
“second Shakespeare and Milton combined?” Oh, dear! And you have
actually beaten this marvel of the ages!’
She began to laugh—the natural vivacity of her nature asserted itself
for a moment, and her face lightened with all that brilliant animation
which gave it its chiefest charm. Valdis looked at her, and, despite
the heat of his own conflicting emotions, smiled.
‘Yes, I have beaten him like a dog,’ he responded, ‘though why I should
do the noble race to which Spartan belongs, a wrong by mentioning it in
connection with a creature like Grovelyn, I do not know. Spartan, old
boy, I ask your pardon! The booming you speak of, Lady Carlyon, has in
every instance been done by Grovelyn himself. It is he and he alone who
has styled himself “Shakespeare and Milton _redivivus_,” and his
self-log-rolling scheme was so cunningly devised that it was rather
difficult to find him out. But I have been on the watch some time, and
have hunted him down at last. He has been on the staff of the _Daily
Chanticleer_ for two years as Alfred Brown, and in that character has
managed to work up “a new poet” in Aubrey Grovelyn, the said Aubrey
Grovelyn being himself. I understand, however, that it is not at all an
original idea on his part; the same thing has been and is being done by
several other fellows like him. But you are not listening, Lady
Carlyon. I suppose I am boring you—’
‘Not at all,’ and Delicia turned her eyes upon him kindly; ‘and you
mistake,—I was listening very attentively. I was thinking what
miserable tricks and mean devices some people will stoop to in order to
secure notoriety. I do not speak of fame—fame is a different thing,
much harder to win, much heavier to bear.’
Her voice sank into a melancholy cadence, and Valdis studied her
delicate profile in the darkening light with passionate tenderness in
his eyes. But he did not speak, and after a little pause she went on
dreamily, more to herself than to him,—
‘Notoriety is a warm, noisy thing—personified, it is like a fat,
comfortable woman who comes into your rooms perspiring, laughing,
talking with all the gossip of the town at her tongue’s end, who folds
you in her arms whether you like it or not, and tells you you are a
“dear,” and wants to know where you get your gowns made and what you had
for dinner—the very essence of broad and vulgar good humour! Fame is
like a great white angel, who points you up to a cold, sparkling,
solitary mountain-top away from the world, and bids you stay there
alone, with the chill stars shining down on you. And people look up at
you and pass; you are too far off for the clasp of friendship; you are
too isolated for the caress of love; and your enemies, unable to touch
you, stare insolently, smile and cry aloud, “So you have climbed to the
summit at last! Well, much good may it do you! Stay there, live there,
and die there, as you must, alone for ever!” And I think it is hard to
be alone, don’t you?’
Her words were tremulous, and Valdis saw tears in her eyes. They had
wandered on unconsciously, and were close to the pier, which was
deserted save for the weather-beaten old mariner, who sat in his little
box at the entrance waiting for the pennies that were rather slow in
coming in at that particular time of year. Valdis passed himself and his
companion through the turn-stile, and they walked side by side on
towards the solemn shadows of the murmuring sea.
‘Now that we have a few minutes together, you can surely tell me what it
is that has gone wrong with you, Lady Carlyon,’ he said, his rich voice
softening to a great tenderness. ‘I am your friend, as you know. I
imagined that your displeasure at that paragraph in _Honesty_ would have
been very great, and justly so; but I begin to fear it is something more
serious that makes you seem so unlike yourself—’
She interrupted him by a light touch on his arm.
‘Is that true? Do you find me changed?’
And she raised her eyes trustingly to his. He met that confiding look
for a moment, then turned away lest the deep love of his soul should be
betrayed.
‘You are not changed in appearance—no!’ he said slowly, ‘You are always
lovely. But there is a great sadness in your face. I cannot help
seeing that.’
She laughed a little, then sighed.
‘I should have made a very bad actress,’ she said; ‘I cannot put a
complete disguise on my thoughts. You are right; I am sad; as sad as
any woman can be in the world. I have lost my husband’s love.’
He started.
‘You have heard all, then;—you know?’
She stopped in her walk and faced him steadily.
‘What! is it common gossip?’ she asked. ‘Does all the town chatter of
what I, till a few days ago, was ignorant of? If so, then, alas! poor
Delicia!’
Her eyes flashed suddenly.
‘Tell me, is it possible that Lord Carlyon has so far forgotten himself
as to make his attentions to La Marina open and manifest, thus allowing
his wife to become an object for the pity and mockery of society?’
‘Lady Carlyon,’ replied Valdis, ‘your friends sought to warn you long
ago, but you would not listen. Your own nature, pure and lofty as it
is, rejected what you deemed mere scandalous rumour. You resented with
the noble confidence of a true wife the least word of suspicion against
Lord Carlyon. When I ventured to hint that your confidence was
misplaced, you dismissed me from your presence. I do not say you were
wrong; you were right. The worthy wife of a worthy husband is bound to
act as you did. But suppose the husband is not worthy, and the wife
deceives herself as to his merits, it is for her own sake, for her
honour and her self-respect that she should be persuaded to realise the
fact and take such steps as may prevent her from occupying a false
position. And now you know—’
‘Now I know,’ interrupted Delicia, with a vibrating passion in her
voice, ‘what is the use of it? What am I to do? What can I do? A woman
is powerless in everything which relates to her husband’s infidelity
merely. I can show no bruises, no evidence of ill-treatment; then what
is my complaint about? “Go home, silly woman,” says the law, “and
understand that if your husband chooses to have a new love every day,
you cannot get separated from him, provided he is civil to you; man has
licence which woman has not.” And so on, and so on, with their eternal
jargon! Paul Valdis, you can act emotions and look tragedies; but have
you ever realised the depth or the terror of the dumb, dreadful dramas
of a woman’s broken heart? No! I don’t think that even you, with all
your fine, imaginative sympathy, can reach thus far. Do you know why I
came away from home to-day and made straight for the sea,—the great,
calm sea which I knew would have the gentleness to drown me if the pain
became too bitter to bear? Nay, do not hold me!’ For Valdis, struck by
the complete breakdown of her reserve, and the brilliant wildness of her
eyes, had unconsciously caught her arm. ‘There is no danger, I assure
you. I have not been given my faith in God quite vainly; and there is
so much of God’s thought in the beauty of ocean, that even to
contemplate it has made me quieter and stronger; I shall not burden it
with my drifting body yet! But do you know, can you guess why I came
here and avoided meeting my husband to-day?’
Valdis shook his head, profoundly moved himself by her strong emotion.
‘Lest I should kill him!’ she said in a thrilling whisper. ‘I was
afraid of myself! I thought that if I had to see him enter my room with
that confident smile of his, that easy manner, that grace of a supreme
conceit swaying his every movement, while I all the time knew the fraud
he was practising on me, the hypocrisy of his embrace, the lie of his
kiss on my lips, I might, in the rush of remembering how I had loved
him, murder him! It was possible; I knew it; I realised it; I confessed
it before God as a sin; but despite of prayer and confession, the
devil’s thought remained!—I might do it in a moment of fury,—in a moment
when wronged love clamoured for vengeance and would listen to no
appeal,—and so I fled from temptation; but now I think the sea and air
have absorbed all my evil desires, for they have gone!—and I shall try
to be content now, content with solitude, till I die!’
Valdis was still silent. She leant over the pier, looking dreamily down
into the darkly-heaving sea.
‘Life at best is such a little thing!’ she said, ‘One wonders sometimes
what it is all for! You see crowds of men and women rushing hither and
thither, building this thing, destroying that, scheming, contriving,
studying, fretting, working, courting, marrying, bringing up their
children, and it is quite appalling to think that the same old road has
been travelled over and over again since the very beginning! All
through the Ptolemies and the Cæsars,—imagine! Exactly the same old
monotonous course of human living and dying! What a waste it seems!
Optimists say we have progressed; but then are we sure of that? And
then one wants to know where the progression leads to; if we are going
forward, what _is_ the “forward?” Myself, I think the great charm of
life is love; without love life is really almost valueless, and surely
not worth the trouble of preserving. Don’t you agree with me?’
She looked up, and, looking, saw his eyes filled with such an intensity
of misery as touched and startled her. He made a slight gesture of
appeal.
‘For God’s sake, don’t speak to me like this!’ he whispered; ‘You
torture me!’
She still gazed at him, half wondering, half fearing. He was silent for
a few minutes, then resumed slowly in quiet tones.
‘You are so candid in your own nature that you can neither wear a
disguise yourself nor see when it is worn by others,’ he said; ‘and just
as you have never suspected your husband of infidelity, you have never
suspected me—of love. I suppose you, with the majority, have looked
upon me as merely the popular mime of the moment, feigning passions I
cannot feel, and dividing what purely human emotions my life allows me
still to enjoy, among the light wantons of the stage, who rejoice in a
multitude of lovers. It is possible you would never believe me capable
of a deep and lasting love for any woman?’
He paused,—and Delicia spoke softly and with great gentleness, moved by
the strength of her own grief to compassionate his, whatever it might
be.
‘Indeed I would, Mr Valdis,’ she said earnestly. ‘I am quite sure you
have a strong and steadfast nature, and that with you it would be a case
of “once love, love always.”’
He met her eyes fully.
‘Thank you,’ he said in low accents; ‘I am glad you do me that justice.
It moves me to make full confession, and to tell you what I thought
would never be told. Others, I fear, have guessed my secret, but
you—you have never seen it, never guessed it. You are not vain enough
to realise your own charm; you live like an angel in a land of divine
dreams, and so you have never known that I—I—’
But she suddenly started away from him, her eyes filling with tears, her
hands thrust out to keep him back from her.
‘No, no,’ she cried, ‘you must not say it; you must not!’
‘Nay, I must and will,’ said Valdis, now losing a little of his hard
self-control, for he sprang to her side and seized her two hands in his.
‘You have guessed it at last, then? That I love you, Delicia! Love you
with all my soul, with every breath of my being, every beat of my heart!
I have tried to hide it from you; I have battled against my own passion,
and the fight has been hard; but when you say—oh, God! with what
piteousness in your dear voice—that without love life is valueless, you
break down my strength; you make me helpless in your hands, and you
unman me! You need not be afraid of me, nor indignant, for I know all
you would say. You will never love me; your whole heart was given to
one man, your husband; he has flung away the precious gift as though it
were naught, and it is broken, dear, quite broken! I know that even
better than you do. Such a nature as yours can never love twice. And I
know, too, that your proud, pure soul resents my love as an outrage
because you are married, though your marriage itself has been one
continual outrage. But you tempt me to speak; I cannot bear to hear the
grief in your voice when you speak of life without love. I want you to
know that there is one man on earth who worships you; who would come
from the ends of the earth to serve you; who will consecrate his days to
you, and who will die blessing your name! No, there shall be no time or
space for reproaches, for, sweet woman as you are, I know the force of
your indignation; I am going away at once, and you need never think of
me again. See, I kiss your hands and ask your forgiveness for my
roughness, my presumption. I have no right to speak as I have done, I
know—but you will have pity—’
He stopped as she gently withdrew her hands from his clasp and gazed at
him with sad, wet eyes. There was no anger in her face, only a profound
despair.
‘Oh, yes, I will have pity,’ she murmured vaguely. ‘Who would not be
pitiful for such a waste of love—of life! It is very cruel and
confusing—one cannot be angry; I grieve for you, and I grieve for
myself. You see, in my case, love is now a thing of the past. I have
to look back upon it and say with the German poet, “I have lived and
loved.” I love no more, and therefore I live no more. You, at any rate,
have more vitality than I—you are still conscious of love—’
‘Bitterly conscious!’ said Valdis. ‘Hopelessly conscious!’
She was silent for a little; her face was turned away, and Valdis could
not see the tears falling from her eyes. Presently she spoke very
tranquilly, putting out her hand to meet his.
‘My dear friend,’ she said, ‘I am very sorry! I think you understand my
nature, and you will therefore feel instinctively how sorry I am! I am
quite an unfortunate mortal; I win love where I never sought it, and I
have given love where it is not valued. Let us say no more about it.
You are a brave man; you have your work, your art, and your career. You
will, I hope, in time forget that Delicia Vaughan ever existed. A few
days ago I should certainly have resented the very idea of your loving
me as an insult and a slur upon my married life; but when I know that my
marriage is a farce—a very devil’s mockery of holy union—why! I am not
in a position to resent anything! Some women, without being as
grief-stricken as I am, or in need of any consolation, hearing such a
confession as yours to-night, would fling themselves into your arms and
give you love for love; but I cannot do that. I have no love left; and
if I had, I would not so forfeit my own self-respect,—or your reverence
for me as a woman.’
‘Oh, my love, my saint! Forgive me!’ cried Valdis, moved by a sudden
deep humiliation. ‘I should still have kept my secret; I ought never to
have spoken!’
She looked at him candidly, the tears still in her eyes and a faint
smile trembling on her mouth.
‘I am not sure about that,’ she said. ‘You see, when a woman is very
sad and lonely, just as if she had grown suddenly too old and poor to
have a friend in the world, there is a wonderful sweetness in the
knowledge that someone still loves her, even though she may be quite
unable to return that love. That is how I feel to-night; and so I
cannot be quite as angry with you as I should like to be!’
She paused, then laid her hand on his arm.
‘It is growing dark, Mr Valdis; will you see me home? My rooms are
quite close to the pier, so it will only be a few minutes’ walk.’
Silently he turned and walked beside her. Overhead, through
slowly-flitting clouds, one or two stars twinkled out for a moment and
vanished again, and the solemn measure of the sea around them sounded
like the subdued chanting of a dirge.
‘Where are you staying?’ asked Delicia, presently.
‘Nowhere,’ he answered quickly. ‘I shall go back to town to-night.’
She said nothing further, and they walked slowly off the pier and up a
little bit of sloping road, whither Spartan preceded them out of an
intelligent desire to show his mistress that though he had only been at
Broadstairs a few hours he already knew the house they were staying at.
Arrived there, Delicia held out both her hands.
‘Good-bye, my dear friend!’ she said. ‘It is a long good-bye, you
know—for it is better you should see as little of me as possible.’
‘Is it necessary to make me suffer?’ asked Valdis, unsteadily. ‘I will
obey you in anything; but must you banish me utterly?’
‘I do not banish you,’ she answered gently. ‘I only say I shall honour
you more deeply and think you a truer friend than ever, if you will
spare yourself and me the pain of constant meeting.’
She looked steadfastly at him; her eyes were grave and sweet; her face
pale and tranquil as that of some marble saint in the niche of a votive
chapel. His heart beat; all the passion and tenderness of the man were
roused. He would have given his life to spare her a moment’s grief, and
yet this quiet desolation of hers, united to such a holy calm, awed him
and kept him mute and helpless. Bending down, he took her hands and
raised them reverently to his lips.
‘Then good-bye, Delicia!’ he said; ‘Good-bye, my love—for you will be my
love always! God keep you! God bless you!’
Loosening her hands as quickly as he had grasped them, he raised his hat
and stood bare-headed in the shadowy evening light, gazing at her as a
man might gaze who was looking his last on life itself. Then he turned
swiftly and was gone.
For a moment Delicia remained passively watching his retreating figure,
her hand on the collar of Spartan, who manifested a wild desire to bound
after him and bring him back. Then, shuddering a little, she went into
the house and shut herself up alone in her bedroom for an hour. When
she came out again her eyes were heavy with the shedding of tears; but
such an expression was on her face as might be on the radiant features
of an angel. And she was very quiet all that evening, sitting at her
window and watching the clouds gradually clear, and the great stars
shine out above the sea.
*CHAPTER IX*
The next day she received her husband’s letter, the letter in which he
had excused himself altogether and started a complaint against her
instead. She glanced over it with a weary sense of disgust, and smiled
disdainfully as she thought what a mountain he was trying to make out of
the mole-hill of the paragraph in _Honesty_.
‘As if any one of the lying tongues of journalism wagging against me
could do me such wrong as his open infidelity,’ she mused. ‘God! How is
it that men manage to argue away their own vices as if they were
nothing, and yet take every small opportunity they can find for damaging
an innocent woman’s reputation!’
She flung aside the letter and turned over the morning paper. There she
found, under the heading of ‘Scene at a London Club,’ an account of
Aubrey Grovelyn’s horse-whipping at the hands of Paul Valdis. The
_exposé_ of the so-called ‘poet,’ who, as Mr Brown, had been steadily
booming himself, was cautiously hinted at in darkly ambiguous terms—no
journal likes to admit that it has been cleverly fooled by one of its
own staff. And great editors, who are anywhere and everywhere except
where they should be, namely, in the editorial room, are naturally loth
to make public the results of their own inattention to business. They do
not like to confess that, in their love of pleasure and their devotion
to race-meetings and shooting-parties, it often happens that the very
porters guarding the doors of their offices know more about the staff
than they do. The porter can tell exactly the hour that Mr B—— comes in
to the office at night, the shortness of the time he stays there, and
the precipitate hurry with which he goes home to bed. The porter knows
that Mr B—— is paid five hundred a year for doing hard work at that
office during a certain number of hours, and that Mr B—— seldom looks in
for more than one hour, having other work on other papers, about which
he says nothing. And that, therefore, Mr B—— is distinctly ‘doing’ his
editor and proprietor. But as long as editors and proprietors prefer to
caper about at the heels of ‘swagger’ society instead of attending
strictly to their duties and to the grave responsibilities of
journalism, so long will the British Press be corrupted by underlings,
and ‘used’ for purposes which are neither honourable nor national, nor
in any way exact, as reflecting the real current of public opinion.
Delicia knew all this of old, hence her indifference to the press
generally. She had always been entertained and surprised at the naïve
delight with which certain society ‘belles’ had shown her descriptions
of themselves in certain fashionable journals, where their personal
attractions were enumerated and discussed as if they were nothing more
than cattle in a market. She could never understand what pleasure there
was in the vulgar compliments of the cheap paragraphist. And in the
same way she never thought it worth while to attach importance to the
scurrilities that appeared in similar quarters concerning all those
women who stood aloof from self-advertisement and declined to ‘give
themselves away’ by consenting to the maudlin puffery of the ‘ladies’
paper.’ So that the lofty tone of injury her husband assumed in his
letter not only struck her as mean, but infinitely grotesque as well.
She did not answer him, nor did he write again; and she passed a quiet
fortnight at Broadstairs, finishing some literary work she had promised
to her publishers at a certain date, and trying to think as little as
possible of herself or her private griefs. When she was not engaged in
creative composition, she turned to the study of books with almost as
much ardour as had possessed her when, at the age of twelve, she had
preferred to shut herself up alone and read Shakespeare to any other
form of entertainment. And gradually, almost unconsciously to herself,
the tone and temper of her mind changed and strengthened; she began to
reconcile herself to the idea of the lonely lot which would henceforward
be her portion. Turning the matter practically over in her mind, she
decided that the best course to adopt would be that of a ‘judicial
separation.’ She would make her husband a suitable ‘allowance’ (she
smiled rather bitterly as she thought what a trouble he would make of
it, and how he would fret and fume if he had to do without his
four-in-hand and his tandem turn-out), and she herself would travel all
over the world and gain fresh knowledge and experience for her literary
labours. Or, if constant travel proved to be too fatiguing, she would
take some place in the remote Highlands of Scotland, or the beautiful
sequestered valleys of Ireland, and make a little hermitage among the
hills, where she could devote herself to work and study for the
remainder of her days.
‘I daresay I shall manage to be at least content, if I am not happy,’
she said to herself; ‘though, of course, society will reverse the
position in its usual eminently false and disgusting way, and will
whisper all sorts of lies about me, such as, “Oh, you know a literary
woman is impossible to live with! It is always so; poor, dear Carlyon
could not possibly stand her, she was so dreadful! Clever, but quite
dreadful! Yes, and so they are separated. Such a good thing for
Carlyon! He looks ten years younger since he got rid of her! And they
say she’s living down in the country somewhere not _too_ far from town;
not _so_ far but that Paul Valdis knows where to find her!” Oh, yes, I
can hear them all at it,—croaking harpies!’ and her small hand clenched
involuntarily. ‘The vultures of society can never understand anyone
loving the sweet savour of truth; they only scent carrion. No man is
true in their estimation, no woman pure; and chastity is so far from
being pleasing to them that they will not even believe it exists!’
On the last afternoon of her stay at Broadstairs, she spent several
hours strolling by the sea, listening to its solemn murmur and watching
the sunlight fall in golden lines over its every billow and fleck of
foam. With the gravity of her thoughts, her face had grown more serious
during the last few days, though it had lost nothing in sweetness of
expression; and as she paced along the sand, close to the very fringe of
the waves, with Spartan bounding now and then into the water and back
with joyous, deep barks of delight, a sudden, inexplicable sense of pain
and regret surprised her into tears. Gazing far out beyond the last
gleam of the ocean line with longing eyes, she murmured,—
‘How strange it is! I feel as if I should never look upon the sea
again! I am growing morbid, I suppose, but to my fancy the waves are
saying, “Good-bye, Delicia! Good-bye for ever, and still good-bye!” like
Tosti’s old song!’
She stood silent for a little while, then turned and went homeward,
resolutely battling with the curious foreboding that had suddenly
oppressed her brain and heart. Spartan, shaking the wet spray from his
shaggy coat, trotted by her side in the highest spirits; he was
untroubled by any presentiments; he lived for the moment and enjoyed it
thoroughly—a habit of mind common to all animals except man.
The next day she returned to London and entered her own house with her
usual quiet and unruffled air. She looked well, even happy; and Robson,
who opened the door for her admittance, began to think he was wrong
after all, and that she ‘knew’ nothing.
‘Is Lord Carlyon in?’ she asked, with the civil coldness of a visitor
rather than of a wife.
‘No, my lady.’ Here Robson hesitated, then finally spoke out. ‘His
lordship has not been home for some days.’
Delicia looked at him steadily, and Robson stammered on, giving her more
information.
‘Since the grand dinner his lordship gave here last week, he has only
called in for his letters; he has been staying with friends.’
Delicia glanced around her at the picturesque hall with its heraldic
emblems, stained-glass windows and rare old oak furniture, all of which
she had collected herself and arranged with the taste of a perfect
artist, and a faint chill crept over her as she thought that perhaps
even her home—the home she had built and planned and made beautiful out
of the work of her own brain—had been desecrated by the company of her
husband’s ‘private friends.’
‘Was it a very grand dinner, Robson?’ she asked, forcing a smile, ‘Or
did you all get into a muddle and do things badly?’
‘Well, my lady, we had very little to do with it,’ answered Robson, now
gaining sufficient courage to pour out his suppressed complaints. ‘His
lordship ordered all the dinner himself from Benoist, and sent cook and
some of the other servants out for the day. They wasn’t best pleased
about it, my lady. I stayed to help in the waiting. It was a very
queer party indeed, but of course it isn’t my business to say anything—’
‘Go on,’ said Delicia, quietly. ‘What people dined here? Do I know any
of them?’
‘Not that I am aware of, my lady,’ said Robson, with an injured air. ‘I
should say it wasn’t at all likely you knew any of them; they were very
loud in their ways, very loud indeed. Two of the females—I beg
pardon—ladies, stayed to sleep—one young one, and one old.’
Trembling from head to foot, Delicia managed still to restrain herself
and to speak quietly,—
‘Did you know their names?’
‘Oh, yes, my lady—Madame de Gascon and her daughter, Miss de Gascon.
Their names are French, but they spoke a sort of costermonger’s
English.’
‘Did any of them go into my study?’
‘No, my lady,’ and honest Robson squared himself proudly. ‘I took the
liberty of locking the door and putting the key in my pocket, and saying
that you had left orders it was to be kept locked, my lady.’
‘Thank you!’ But as she spoke she quivered with rage and shame—her very
servant pitied her; even _he_ had had more decency and thought for her
than the man she had wedded. Was it possible to drain much deeper the
dregs of humiliation?
She went upstairs to her own bedroom and looked nervously about her.
Had ‘Madame de Gascon and Miss de Gascon,’ whoever they were, slept
there? She dared not ask; she feared lest she should lose the self
control she had practised during her absence, and so be unable to meet
her husband with that composure and dignity which her own self-respect
taught her would be necessary to maintain. She loosened her cloak and
took off her hat, glancing at all the familiar objects around her the
while, as though she expected to see them changed. In the evening she
would have to go to Lady Dexter’s ‘crush,’ which was being given in her
special honour. She determined she would lie down and rest till it was
time to dress. But just as she turned towards her bed a sharp pain ran
through her body, as though a knife had been plunged into her heart,—a
black cloud loomed before her eyes, and she fell forward in a dead
swoon. Emily, the maid, who was fortunately in the adjoining
dressing-room, heard her fall, and rushed at once to her assistance.
With the aid of cold water and smelling-salts, she shudderingly revived
and gazed about her in pitiful wonderment.
‘Emily, is it you?’ she asked feebly. ‘What is the matter? Did I faint?
What a strange thing for me to do! I remember now; it was a dreadful
pain that came at my heart. I thought I was dying—’
She paused, shivering violently.
‘Shall I send for the doctor, my lady?’ asked the frightened Emily.
‘You look very white; you will never be able to go to the party this
evening.’
‘Oh, yes, I shall,’ and with an effort Delicia rose to her feet and
tried to control the trembling of her limbs. ‘I will sit in this
arm-chair and rest, and I shall soon be all right. Go and make me a cup
of tea, Emily, and don’t say anything about my illness to the other
servants.’
Emily, after lingering about a little, left the room at last, with some
uneasiness; and when she had gone, Delicia leaned back in her chair and
closed her eyes.
‘That was a horrible, horrible pain!’ she thought. ‘I wonder if there
is anything wrong with my heart? To-morrow I will see a doctor;
to-night I shall want all my strength, physical and moral, to help me to
look with calmness on my husband’s face.’
Gradually she grew better; her breathing became easier and the nervous
trembling of her limbs ceased. When the maid came up with the tea she
was almost herself again, and smiled at her attendant’s anxious face in
a perfectly reassuring manner.
‘Don’t be frightened, Emily,’ she said gently. ‘Women often faint, you
know; it is nothing extraordinary; it might happen to you any day.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ stammered Emily. ‘But you never have fainted—and—’
‘You want me to ask a doctor about myself? So I will to-morrow. But
to-night I must look my best.’
‘What gown will you wear, my lady?’ asked Emily, beginning to regain her
wits and composure.
‘Oh, the very grandest, of course,’ said Delicia, with a little laugh.
‘The one with the embroidered train, which you say looks as if it were
sewn all over with diamonds.’
Emily’s bright face grew more radiant; the care of this special gown was
her delight; her mistress had only worn it once, and then had looked
such a picture of ethereal loveliness as might have made ‘Oberon, the
fairy king,’ pause in his flight over flowers to wonder at her; and
while the willing ‘Abigail’ busied herself in preparing the adornments
of the evening, Delicia sipped her tea and reclined in her chair
restfully, thinking all the while strange thoughts that had not occurred
to her before.
‘If I were to die now,’ so ran her musings, ‘all the results of my
life’s work would, by the present tenor of my will, go to my husband. He
would care nothing for my fame or honour; his interests would centre
round the money only. And with that money he would amuse himself with
La Marina or any other new fancy of the hour; possibly my own jewels
would be scattered as gifts among his favourites, and I doubt if even my
poor, faithful Spartan would find a home for his old age! This must be
seen to. I have made a mistake and it must be remedied. Fortunately
the law, which is generally so unjust to women, has been forced into
permitting our unhappy sex to have at least an individual right over our
own money, whether earned or inherited; formerly we were not allowed to
have any property apart from our lords and masters! Good heavens! What
a heavy score we women shall run up against men at the Day of Judgment!’
The hours wore on, and by the time she was dressed for Lady Dexter’s ‘at
home’ she was in one of her most brilliant, vivacious moods. Emily, the
maid, stared at her in rapt fascination, as arrayed in the
richly-embroidered dress of jewel-work, with its train of soft satin to
match, springing from the shoulders and falling in pliant folds to the
ground, she stood before her mirror fastening a star of diamonds among
her luxuriant hair. Through the rare old lace that fringed the sleeves
of her gown, her fair white arms shone like the arms of the marble
Psyche; her eyes were dark and luminous, her lips red, her cheeks
faintly flushed with excitement. A single branch of ‘Annunciation’
lilies garlanded her dress from waist to bosom, and as she regarded her
own fair image she smiled sorrowfully, mentally apostrophising herself
thus:—
‘No, you are not quite bad-looking, Delicia, but you have one horrible
defect—you have got what is called an “expressive” face. That is a
mistake! You should not have any expression; it is “bad form” to look
interested, surprised, or indignant. A beautiful nullity is what men
like—a nullity of face combined with a nullity of brain. You should
paint and powder and blacken your eyelashes, and you should also be
ready to show your ankles, “by accident,” if necessary. The men would
find you charming then, Delicia; they would say you had “go” in you; but
to be simply a student, with ideas of your own about the world in
general, and to write down these ideas in books, which give you a fame
and position equal to the fame and position of a man,—this makes you a
bore in their eyes, Delicia!—an unmitigated nuisance, and they wish you
were well out of their way! If you could only have been a “Living
Picture” at the Palace Theatre, or turned out your arms and twiddled
your toes in front of the footlights with as few garments on as
possible, you would have been voted “clever,” Delicia! But being a
successful rival with men in the struggle for fame, they vent their
spite by calling you a fool. And you are a fool, my dear, to have ever
married one of them!’
Smiling at herself disdainfully, she gathered up her fan and gloves, and
descended to her carriage. No message had come from Carlyon to say
whether or no he meant to be present at the party that evening; but his
wife had attained to such an appreciable height of cool self-control,
that she now viewed the matter with complete indifference. Arrived at
Lord Dexter’s stately house in Park Lane, she went to the ladies’ room
to throw off her wraps, and there found, all alone, and standing well in
front of the long mirror, so as to completely block the view for anyone
else, a brilliant-looking, painted personage in a pale-green costume,
glittering with silver, who glanced up as she entered and surveyed her
pearl embroideries with greedy admiration.
‘What an awfully sweet gown!’ she burst out frankly. ‘I always say what
I think, though I am told it is rude. It’s awfully sweet! I should
like just such a one to dance in!’
Delicia looked at her in a haughty silence. The other woman laughed.
‘I suppose you think it pretty cool of me making remarks on your
clothes,’ she said; ‘but I’m a “celebrity,” you see, and I always say
what I like and do what I like. I’m Violet de Gascon;—_you_ know!—the
“Marina.”’
Frozen into a rigid state of calm, Delicia loosened her lace wrappings
with chilly fingers, and allowed the servant in attendance to take them
from her.
‘Are you?’ she then said, slowly and bitterly, ‘I congratulate you! As
you have given me your name, I may as well give you mine. I am Lady
Carlyon.’
‘No!’ cried ‘La Marina,’ known in polite society as ‘Miss de Gascon,’
and to her father in Eastcheap as ‘my gal, Jewlia Muggins.’ ‘No! You
don’t mean to say you’re the famous Delicia Vaughan? Why, I’ve read all
your books, and cried over them, I can tell you! Well now, to think of
it!’ And her hard, brilliant face was momentarily softened in sudden
interest. ‘Why, all these swagger people are asked to meet _you_ here
to-night, and I’m the paid _artiste_. I’m to have forty guineas to
dance twice before the assembled company! Tra-la-la!’ and she executed
a sudden lively pirouette. ‘I am pleased! I’d rather dance before you
than the Queen!’
In an almost helpless state of amazement, Delicia sat down for a moment
and gazed at her. The servant had left the room, and ‘La Marina,’
glancing cautiously about her, approached on tip-toe, moving with all
the silent grace of a beautiful Persian cat. ‘I say,’ she said
confidentially, ‘you are sweetly pretty! But I suppose you know that;
and you’re awfully clever, and I suppose you know that too! But why
ever did you go and marry such a cad as “Beauty” Carlyon?’
Springing to her feet, Delicia fronted her, her eyes flashing
indignation, her breath coming and going, her lips parted to speak, when
swift as thought ‘La Marina’ tapped her fingers lightly against her
mouth.
‘Don’t defend him, you dear thing!’ she said frankly. ‘He isn’t worth
it! He thinks he’s made a great impression on me, but, lor’! I wouldn’t
have him as a butler! My heart is as sound as a bell,’ and she slapped
herself emphatically on the chest, as though in proof of it. ‘When I
take a lover—a real one, you know,—no sham!—I’ll pick out a good,
honest, worthy chap from the working classes. I don’t care about your
“blue blood” coming down from the Conquest, with all the evils of the
Conquest fellows in it; it seems to me the older the blood the worse the
man!’
Delicia grew desperate. It was no time to play civilities off one
against the other; it was a case of woman to woman.
‘You know I cannot answer you!’ she said hotly. ‘You know I cannot
speak to you of my husband or myself. Oh, how _dare_ you insult me!’
‘La Marina’ looked at her amazedly with great, wide-open, unabashed
black eyes.
‘Good gracious!’ she exclaimed, ‘here’s a row! Insult you? I wouldn’t
insult you for the world; I like your books too much; and now, having
seen you, I like _you_. I suppose you’ve heard your husband runs after
me; but, lor’! you shouldn’t let that put you out. They all do
it—married men most of all. I can’t help it! There’s the Duke of
Stand-Off—he’s after me day and night; he’s got three children, and his
wife’s considered a leading beauty. Then there’s Lord Pretty-Winks; he
went and sold an old picture that’s been in his family hundreds of
years, and bought me a lot of fal-lals with the proceeds. I didn’t want
them, and I told him so; but it’s all no use—they’re noodles, every one
of them.’
‘But you encourage them,’ said Delicia, passionately. ‘If you did not—’
‘If I did not _pretend_ to encourage them,’ said ‘La Marina,’
composedly, ‘I should lose all chance of earning a living. No manager
would employ me! That’s a straight tip, my dear; follow it; it won’t
lead you wrong!’
But Delicia, with a smarting pain in her eyes and a sense of suffocation
in her throat, was forced on by her emotions to put another question.
‘Stop—you make me think I have done you an injustice,’ she said. ‘Do
you mean to tell me—that you are—?’
‘A good woman?’ finished ‘La Marina,’ smiling curiously. ‘No, I don’t
mean to tell you anything of the sort! I’m not good; it doesn’t pay me.
But I am not as bad as men would like me to be. Come, let’s go into the
drawing-room. Or shall I go first? Yes?’—this as Delicia drew back and
signed to her to proceed—‘All right; you look _sweet_!’
And she swept her green and silver skirts out of the room, leaving
Delicia alone to steady her nerves as best she might, and regain her
sorely-shaken self-control. And in a few minutes the fashionable crowd
assembled at Lady Dexter’s stirred and swayed with excitement as all
eyes were turned on the sylph-like vision of a fair woman in gleaming
white and jewels, with a pale face and dark violet eyes, whose name was
announced through the length and breadth of the great drawing-rooms by
the servants-in-waiting as ‘Lady Carlyon,’ but whom all the world of
intelligence and culture present whispered of as ‘the famous Delicia
Vaughan.’ For a handle to one’s name is a poor thing in comparison to
the position of genius; and that the greatest emperor ever crowned is
less renowned throughout the nations than plain William Shakespeare, is
as it should be, and serves as a witness of the eternal supremacy of
truth and justice amid a world of shams.
*CHAPTER X*
The first person Delicia saw after her hostess on entering the rooms was
her husband. She bowed to him serenely, with a charming smile and
playful air, as if she had only just left his company, then passed him
by, entering at once into conversation with an artist of note, who came
eagerly forward to present his young wife to her. Carlyon, quite taken
aback, stared at her half-angrily, half-obsequiously, for there was
something very queenly in the way she moved, something very noble in the
manner she carried her proud little head, on which the diamond star she
wore shone like Venus on a frosty night. He watched her slim figure in
its white draperies moving hither and thither; he saw the brilliant
smile light up her whole countenance and flash in her violet eyes; he
watched men of distinction in art and statesmanship crowd about her with
courtly flatteries and elegantly-worded compliments, and the more he
watched her, the more morose and ill-humoured he became.
‘Anyhow,’ he muttered to himself, ‘she is my wife, and she can’t get rid
of me. She has no fault whatever to find with me in the eyes of the
law!’
He had always been vain of his personality, and it irritated him
curiously to notice that she never glanced once in his direction. No
one could possibly deny his outward attractiveness—he was distinctly
what is called a ‘beautiful man.’ Beautiful in form and physique, manly
in bearing, ‘god-like’ in feature. Nothing could do away with these
facts. And he had imagined that when Delicia—tender, worshipping
Delicia—set eyes on him again after her temporary absence from him, her
ravishment at the sight of his perfections would be so great that she
would fling herself into his arms or at his feet, and, as he expressed
it to himself, ‘make it all right.’ But her aspect this evening was
rather discouraging to these hopes, for she seemed not to see him or his
attractions at all. She was apparently more fascinated with the
appearance of a gouty ambassador, who sat far back in a corner carefully
resting one foot on a velvet hassock, and who was evidently afraid to
move. To this old gentleman Delicia talked in her most charming manner,
and Carlyon, as his eyes wandered about the room, suddenly caught the
mischievous and mocking glance of ‘La Marina’—a glance which said as
plainly as words, ‘What a fool you are!’ Flushing with annoyance, he
moved from the position he had taken up near the grand piano and
strolled by himself through the rooms, picking out here and there a few
of his own friends to speak to, who, however, seemed to have nothing
much to say except, ‘How charming Lady Carlyon looks this evening!’ a
phrase which irritated rather than pleased him, simply because it was
true. It was true that Delicia looked lovely; it was true that she
eclipsed every woman in the room by her intelligence, grace of manner
and brilliancy of conversation; and it was true that for a time at least
she was the centre of attraction and absorbed the whole interest of
everyone present. And Carlyon was distinctly vexed at the sensation she
made, because he had no part in it, because he felt himself left out in
the cold, and, moreover, because he was forced to understand that she,
his wife, had determined that so he should be left. He would not—perhaps
by some defect of brain he could not—realise that he had himself
forfeited all claim to her consideration or respect, and he was glad
when the arrival of another celebrity was announced, who at once
distracted the attention of the frivolous throng from Delicia
altogether—a lady of brilliant beauty, and of exalted rank, who had
distinguished herself by becoming a _demi-mondaine_ of the most open and
shameless type, but who, nevertheless, continued to ‘move in society,’
as the phrase goes, with a considerable amount of _éclat_, simply
because she had money, and was wont to assist churches with it and
shower pecuniary benefits on penniless clerics. Deity (through the said
clerics) blessed her in spite of her moral backslidings; and instead of
denouncing her as it should have done, the Church went to her
garden-parties. Lady Brancewith was a clever woman in her way, as well
as a beautiful one; she loved her own vices dearly, and was prepared to
sacrifice anything for the indulgence of them—husband, children, name,
fame, honour; but she took a great deal of pains to keep in with ‘pious’
people, and she knew that the best way to do that was continually to
give _largesse_ all round. The worthy clergyman of the parish in which
her great house was the chiefest of the neighbourhood, shut his eyes to
her sins and opened them to her cheques; so all went well and merrily
with her. Her entrance into Lady Dexter’s drawing-room was the signal
for a complete change in the attitude of the fashionable throng.
Everybody craned their necks to look at her and comment on her dress and
diamonds; people began to whisper to each other the newest bits of
scandal about her, and Delicia, with her fair face and unsullied
character, was soon deserted and forgotten. She was rather glad of this,
and she sat down in a retired corner to rest, near the entrance to the
great conservatory, where the curtains shaded her from the light, and
where she could see without being seen. She watched the smiles and
gestures of Lady Brancewith with a good deal of inward pain and
contempt.
‘That is the kind of “society woman” men like,’ she mused, ‘One who will
go down into the mud with them and never regret the loss of cleanliness.
I think she is a worse type than “La Marina,” for “La Marina” does not
pretend to be good; but this woman’s whole life is occupied in the
despicable art of feigning virtue.’
She remained in her quiet nook looking at the restless, talking,
giggling throng, and now and then turning her eyes towards the flowers
in the conservatory—tall lilies, brilliant azaleas, snowy Cape
jessamine, drooping passion flowers—all exquisite creations of perfect
beauty, yet silent and seemingly unconscious of their own charms.
‘How much more lovely and worthy of love flowers are than human beings!’
she thought. ‘If I had been the Creator, I think I would have given the
flowers immortal souls, rather than to men!’
At that moment her husband passed her without perceiving her. Lady
Brancewith was on his arm, evidently delighted to be seen in the company
of so physically handsome a person. The little diamonds sewn on her
priceless lace flashed in Delicia’s eyes like sparks of light; the
faint, sickly odour of patchouli was wafted from her garments as she
moved; the hard lines which vice and self-indulgence had drawn on that
fair face were scarcely perceptible in the softened light, and her
little low laugh of coquettish pleasure at some remark of Lord Carlyon’s
sounded musical enough even to Delicia, who, though she knew and
detested the woman’s character, could not refrain from looking after her
half in wonderment, half in aversion. Within a few paces of where she
sat they stopped,—Lord Carlyon placed a chair for his fair companion
near a giant palm, which towered up nearly to the roof of the
conservatory, and then, drawing another to her side, sat down himself.
‘At last in my wretched life I am allowed a moment’s pleasure!’ he said,
conveying into his fine eyes a touch of the Beautiful Sullenness
expression which he generally found answer so well with women.
Lady Brancewith laughed, unfurling her fan.
‘Dear me, how very tragic!’ she said. ‘I had, no idea you were so
wretched, Lord Carlyon! On the contrary, I thought you were one of the
most envied of men!’
Carlyon was silent a moment, looking at her intently.
‘The only man in the world to be really envied is your husband,’ he said
morosely.
Delicia, hidden by the protecting curtain, kept herself quite still. A
smile of disdain came on her proud mouth as she thought within herself,
‘What liars men are! I have heard him say often that Lord Brancewith
ought to be hounded out of the clubs for allowing his wife to dishonour
his name! And now he declares him to be the only man in the world to be
really envied!’
But Carlyon was speaking again, and some force stronger than herself
held her there motionless, an unwilling listener.
‘You have never been kind to me,’ he complained, the Beautiful
Sullenness look deepening in his eyes. ‘Lots of other fellows get a
chance to make themselves agreeable to you, but you never give me the
ghost of one. You are awfully hard on me—Lily!’
He paused a moment before uttering Lady Brancewith’s Christian name,
then spoke it softly and lingeringly, as though it were a caress. She,
by way of reply, gave him a light tap on the cheek with her fan.
‘And you are awfully impertinent,’ she said, smiling. ‘Don’t you
remember you are a married man?’
‘I do, to my cost,’ he answered. ‘And you are a married woman!’
‘Oh, but I am so different,’ she declared naïvely. ‘You see, you have
got a wonderful celebrity for a wife—clever and brilliant, and all that.
Now, poor Brancewith is a dreadful, dear old dunce, and I should really
die if I hadn’t some other man to speak to sometimes—’
‘Or several other men!’ he put in, taking her fan from her hand and
beginning to wave it to and fro.
She laughed.
‘Perhaps! How jealous you are! Do you treat your wife to these sort of
sarcasms?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t talk about my wife,’ he said pettishly. ‘My wife
and I have nothing in common.’
‘Really!’ Lily Brancewith yawned slightly. ‘How often that happens in
married life, doesn’t it? She is here to-night, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, she is in the rooms somewhere,’ and Carlyon began to look
decidedly cross. ‘She was quite the centre of attraction till you came
in. Then, of course, it was a case of a small star paling before the
full moon in all her splendour!’
‘How sweetly poetical! But please don’t break my fan,’ and she took the
delicate toy in question from him. ‘It cost twenty guineas, and it
isn’t paid for yet.’
‘Let me settle the bill,’ said Carlyon, looking adoringly into her eyes,
‘or any amount of bills!’
A faint tremor ran through Delicia’s body, as though a cold wind were
playing on her nerves. Bending a little forward, she listened more
intently.
‘Generous man!’ laughed Lady Brancewith. ‘I know your wife has made you
rich, but I remember the time when you were not a bit flush of money,
were you, poor boy! But you were always very nice and very
complimentary, even then.’
‘Glad you admit it,’ said Carlyon, drawing a little nearer to her. ‘The
memory of it may decide you not to throw me over now!’
‘What nonsense you talk!’ and Lady Brancewith gave him her hand to hold.
‘I want to see your wife; do introduce me to her! I have often been on
the point of meeting her, but never have done so. _She_ doesn’t know
the people I know, and _I_ don’t know the people she knows, so we’ve
always missed each other. She is such a genius! Dunce as you are, you
must have sense enough to be very proud of her!’