‘Well, I don’t know! I think a clever woman—a writer of books, you
know, like my wife—is a mistake. She is always _unsexed_.’
As the word passed his lips, Delicia rose, pale, fair and calm in her
glistening robes, and confronted them. Like an austere white angel
suddenly descended from heaven to earth she stood,—quite silent,—looking
straight at her husband and his companion with such a grand scorn in her
dark violet eyes as made Carlyon shrink within himself like a beaten
hound. Lady Brancewith glanced up at her with a half-impertinent,
half-questioning smile, but not a word did Delicia utter. One moment
she stood surveying the disloyal, ungracious and ungrateful churl who
owed all he possessed in the world to her tenderness and bounty; then
coldly, quietly, and with an unshaken grace of bearing and queenliness
of movement, she turned away, her soft satin train sweeping them by as
she moved forward into the crowded rooms and disappeared.
‘Who was that wonderful-looking woman?’ asked Lady Brancewith, eagerly.
Carlyon flushed, anon grew deadly pale.
‘That was Delicia—my wife,’ he answered curtly.
‘That! That the novelist!’ almost screamed Lady Brancewith. ‘Why
didn’t you say so? Why didn’t you introduce me? I had no idea she was
like that! I thought all literary women wore short hair and spectacles!
Good gracious me! And she must have heard you say you considered her
“unsexed!” Billy, what a brute you are!’
Carlyon started angrily. The fair Lily and he used in former days to
call each other ‘Billy’ and ‘Lily’ so frequently that a wag among their
acquaintance made a rhyme on them, running thus:—
‘Lily and Billy
Are invariably silly!
and at that time he did not mind it. But now, considering that he was
‘Lord’ Carlyon, he did not care to be addressed as ‘Billy,’ and his
resentment showed itself pretty plainly on his darkened countenance.
But Lady Brancewith was too much excited to heed his annoyance.
‘The idea!’ she continued. ‘If she was sitting there all the while she
must have heard _everything_! A nice mess you have made of it! If I
were in her place, I’d throw you off like a pair of old shoes!’
‘I haven’t the least doubt you would,’ he said with temper. ‘It’s the
way you behave with most men who have the honour of sharing your
favour!’
Lily Brancewith showed her pearly teeth in a savage little smile.
‘You were always what is called “rather shady,” Billy,’ she observed
calmly. ‘But I didn’t give you credit for being _quite_ a cad! Ta-ta!
I’m going to find your wife and introduce myself to her. You know in
society people said you were to be pitied for marrying a “literary”
celebrity, but I shall put the gossips right on that point—I shall tell
everybody it is she who is to be pitied for marrying a military
nonentity!’
With a light laugh at her own sarcasm she left him, and started on a
voyage of discovery after Delicia. The people were wedged together in
groups at every available point to watch the dancing of “La Marina,” who
had commenced her performance, and who was announced for that evening as
‘Mademoiselle Violet de Gascon’ out of deference to the ‘proprieties,’
who might possibly have been shocked had they been too openly told that
the _figurante_ was the ‘Empire’s’ famous ‘Marina,’ though they were
quite aware of the fact all the time. For in the strange motley we call
society, one of the chief rules is that if you know a truth you must
never say it; you must say something else, as near to a lie as possible.
For example, if you are aware, and everybody else is aware, that a lady
of exalted title has outraged, or is outraging, every sense of decency
and order in her social and private life, you must always say she is one
of the purest and most innocent creatures living. _Of_ course, if she
is a nobody, without any rank at all, you are at liberty to give her
poor name over to the dogs of slander to rend at will; but if she is a
countess or a duchess, you must entirely condone her vulgar vices.
Think of her title! Think of her family connections! Think of the
manner in which her influence might be brought to bear on some little
matter in which you personally have an interest! Lady Brancewith knew
all this well enough; she knew exactly how to play her cards, and she
was sufficiently a woman of the world to salute ‘La Marina’ with a
pretty bow and compliment as soon as her dance was finished, and to
express the plaintive wish, uttered sighingly, ‘How glad I should be if
I were half so clever!’
Whereat Marina sniffed the air dubiously and said nothing. ‘Jewlia
Muggins,’ _alias_ ‘Violet de Gascon,’ knew a thing or two, and was not
to be taken in by Lady Brancewith or any of her set. She was keenly
disappointed. Delicia had not been present to see her dance, and she
had very much wished to create a favourable impression on that ‘sweet
thing in white’ as she called her. She had danced her best, gracefully,
and with an exquisite modesty; too exquisite for many of the gentlemen
assembled, some of whom whispered to each other that she was ‘going off’
a bit, simply because they could not see much above her slender ankles.
She herself, however, cared nothing for what they said or thought, and
at the conclusion of her dance she boldly asked her hostess where Lady
Carlyon was.
‘She has gone home, I am sorry to say,’ was the reply. ‘She is not very
well, she tells me; and she found the heat of the room rather trying.’
‘Are you speaking of the guest of the evening—Lady Carlyon?’ inquired
Lady Brancewith, sweetly.
‘Yes. She extremely regretted having to leave so early, but she works
hard, you know, and she is not at all robust.’
Here Lady Dexter’s attention was distracted by the claims of a
long-haired violinist desirous of performing a ‘classical’ piece
immediately, which, when it did begin, had the effect of driving many
people down to supper or out of the house altogether; and in the general
scrimmage on the stairs ‘La Marina’ found herself elbowing Lord Carlyon.
‘Your wife’s gone home,’ she said curtly. ‘Why didn’t you go with her?’
‘I have another engagement,’ he answered coldly.
‘Not with me!’ she said, showing all her even white teeth in a broad
grin. ‘I talked ever so long to Lady Carlyon this evening, and told her
just what I thought of you!’
His eyes darkened furiously, and the lines of his mouth grew hard and
vindictive.
‘You wild cat!’ he said savagely. ‘If you have _dared_—’
‘Puss, puss! Pretty puss!’ laughed Marina. ‘Cats have claws, my Lord
Bill, and they scratch occasionally!’
With a swish of her silken skirts she darted past him into the
supper-room, where she immediately became surrounded by a circle of
young noodles, who evidently deemed it a peculiar glory and honour to be
allowed to hand chicken salad to the gifted creature who nightly knocked
her own nose with her foot in the presence of a crowded house. What was
any art compared to this? What was science? What was learning? What
was virtue? Nothing,—less than nothing! To have a shapely leg and know
how to hit your nose with your foot, is every day proved to be the best
way for a woman to have what is called a ‘good time’ in this world. She
needn’t be able to spell, she may drop her h’s broadcast, she may
‘booze’ on brandy,—but so long as the nose is hit every night with the
foot in an accurate and rhythmic manner, she will always have plenty of
jewels and more male admirers than she can conveniently manage. For
there is no degradation that can befall a woman which man will not
excuse and condone; equally there is no elevation or honour she can win
which he will not grudge and oppose with all the force of his nature!
For man loves to hold a strangulation-grip on the neck of all creation,
women included; and the idea that woman should suddenly wrench herself
out of his grasp and refuse to be either trapped like a hare, hunted
like a fox, or shot like a bird, is a strange, new and disagreeable
experience for him. And very naturally he clings to the slave type of
womanhood, and encourages the breed of those who are willing to become
dancers and toys of his ‘harem,’ for, if all women were to rise to the
height of their true and capable dignity, where should he go to for his
so-called ‘fun’?
Some thoughts of this kind were in Lord Carlyon’s head as he threw on
his opera-coat and prepared to leave the scene of revelry at the
Dexters. The pale, noble face of Delicia haunted him; the disdain of
her clear eyes still rankled in his soul; and he was actually indignant
with her for what he considered ‘that offensive virtue of hers,’ which
shamed him, and which had, for a moment at least, made ‘the most
distinguished Lady Brancewith’ seem nothing but a common drab, daubed
with paint and powder. Even as he thought of her thus, the fair and
faithless Lily approached him, smiling, with a coaxing and penitent air.
‘Still huffy?’ she inquired sweetly. ‘Poor, dear thing! Did it fret
and fume and turn nasty?’ She laughed, then added, ‘Don’t be cross,
Billy! I was very rude to you just now—I’m sorry! See!’ and she folded
her hands with an appealing air. ‘Drive home with me, will you? I’m so
lonely! Brancewith’s at Newmarket.’
Carlyon hesitated, looking at her. She was undoubtedly very lovely,
despite her artificial flesh tints and distinctly dyed hair.
‘All right!’ he said with a stand-offish manner of coldness and
indifference, ‘I don’t mind seeing you home.’
‘How sweet and condescending of you!’ and Lady Brancewith threw on her
mantle gleaming with iridescent jewels and showered with perfumed lace.
‘So good of you to bore yourself with my company!’
Her eyes flashed; she was in a dangerous mood, and Carlyon saw it. In
silence he piloted her through the ranks of attendant flunkeys, and when
her carriage came bowling up to the door assisted her into it.
‘Good-night!’ he then said, raising his hat ceremoniously.
Lily Brancewith turned white with sudden passion.
‘Aren’t you coming in?’ she asked.
He smiled, thoroughly enjoying the position.
‘No, I have changed my mind. I am going home—to my wife!’
Lady Brancewith trembled, but quickly controlled herself.
‘So right of you,’ she said, smiling. ‘So proper!’ Then, putting out
her hand, she caught him by the coat-sleeve. ‘Do you know what I wish
for you?’ she said slowly.
‘Can’t imagine!’ he responded carelessly. ‘Something nasty, no doubt.’
‘Yes, it is something nasty!’ She laughed under her breath as she spoke.
‘Something nasty, yet very commonplace, too. I wish your wife may
discover the kind of man you are,—and _stop your allowances_!
Good-night!
She smiled brilliantly; the horses started suddenly and he drew back,
smothering an angry oath. Another moment and the carriage had rolled
away, leaving him alone staring at the pavement. He stood for a little
lost in gloomy meditation; then, summoning a hansom, was driven home at
a brisk pace, having made up his mind to ‘face it out,’ as he inwardly
said, with Delicia.
‘She can’t help loving me,’ he mused. ‘She always has loved me, and she
is not a woman likely to change her feelings in a hurry. I’m sorry she
saw me with Lily Brancewith; and of course, if that jade Marina has
really been talking to her there’ll be a devil of a row. I must make it
right with her somehow, and I think I know the best way to go to work.’
Here he smiled. ‘Poor little woman! I daresay she feels awfully sore;
but I know her character—a few loving words and plenty of kisses and
embraces, and she’ll be just the same as ever she was, and—and—by Jove!
I’ll see if I can’t turn over a new leaf. It’ll be infernally dull, but
I’ll try it!’
And perfectly satisfied with the plan he had formulated in his own mind
for setting things straight, he arrived at his own house. The door was
opened to him by Robson, who informed him that her ladyship had returned
about an hour ago and was waiting to see him in her study.
‘In her study, did you say?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, my lord. Her ladyship said, would you kindly go up at once, as
soon as you came in.’
A touch of ‘nerves’ affected him as he threw off his coat and began to
ascend the stairs. He saw Robson extinguish the gas in the hall and
descend kitchenwards, and a great silence and darkness seemed to
encompass the house as he paused for a moment outside his wife’s room.
Then, slowly and with some hesitation, he lifted the velvet _portière_
and entered.
*CHAPTER XI*
Delicia was at her desk, writing. She had taken off her rich evening
costume and was clad in a loose robe of white cashmere that fell down to
her feet, draping her after the fashion of one of Fra Angelico’s angels.
Her hair was unbound from its ‘dress coiffure’ of elaborate twists and
coils, and was merely thrust out of her way at the back of her head in
one great knot of gold. She rose as her husband entered, and turned her
face, deadly pale and rigid as a statue’s, full upon him. He paused,
looking at her, and felt his braggart courage oozing out at his fingers’
ends.
‘Delicia,’ he began, making a poor attempt at smiling. ‘Delicia, I am
awfully sorry—’
Her eyes, full of a burning indignation, flashed upon him like lightning
and struck him, despite himself, into silence.
‘Spare yourself and me any further lies!’ she said, in a low voice that
vibrated with intense passion. ‘There is no longer any need of them.
You have shown me yourself as you are, in your true colours—the mask has
fallen, and you need not stoop to pick it up and put it on again. It is
mere waste of time!’
He stared at her, foolishly pulling at his moustache and still trying to
smile.
‘You called me “unsexed” to-night,’ she went on, never removing her
steadfast gaze from his face. ‘Do you know what the word means? If
not, I will tell you. It is to be like the women you admire!—to be like
“La Marina,” who strips her body to the gaze of the public without
either shame or regret; it is to be like Lady Brancewith, who flings her
husband’s name and honour to the winds for any fool to mock at, and who
in her high position is worse, yes, worse than “La Marina,” who at any
rate is honest in so far that she admits her position and makes no
pretence of being what she is not! But I,—what have _I_ done that you
should call me “unsexed?”’
She paused, breathing quickly.
‘I didn’t say _you_ were “unsexed,”’ he stammered awkwardly. ‘I said
clever women were, as a rule, unsexed.’
‘Pardon me,’ she interrupted him coldly. ‘You said “women who write
books, like my wife.” Those were your exact words. And, I repeat, what
have I done to deserve them? Have I ever dishonoured your name? Have
you not been the one thought, the one pride, the one love of my life?
Has not every beat of my heart, together with every stroke of my pen,
been for you and you only? While all the time to me you have played
traitor—your very looks have been lies, you have deceived and destroyed
all my most sacred beliefs and hopes; you have murdered me as thoroughly
as if you had thrust a knife through my heart and hurled me down dead at
your feet!’
Her voice vibrated with passion—strong, deeply-felt passion, unshaken by
the weakness of sobs or tears.
He made a step towards her.
‘Look here, Delicia,’ he said, ‘don’t let us have a scene! I have been
a fool, I daresay—I am quite willing to admit it—but can’t you forget
and forgive?’ And undeterred by the chill aversion in her face, he held
out his arms. ‘Come, I am sure your own heart cannot tell you to be
unkind to me! You do love me—’
‘Love you!’ she cried, recoiling from him; ‘I hate you! Your very
presence is hideous to my sight; and just as I once thought you the
noblest of men, so I think you now the lowest, the meanest! You have
been a fool, you say; oh, if you were only that! Only a fool! There
are so many of them! Some of them such good fellows, too, in their
folly. Fools there are in plenty who, nevertheless, do manage to
preserve some cleanliness in their lives; who would not wrong a woman or
insult her for the world—fools whom, mayhap, it might be good to love
and to work for, and who at any rate are not cads or cowards!’
He started, and the colour leapt to his face in a shamed red, then died
away, leaving him very pale.
‘Oh, if you are going to rant and scream—’ he began.
She turned upon him with a regal air.
‘Lord Carlyon, to rant and scream is not my _métier_,’ she said. ‘I
leave that to the poor “Marina,” when you have dosed her with too much
champagne. There is no need to go over the cause of our present
conflict; what I have to say can be said in very few words. Your
“unsexed” wife, who has had the honour of maintaining you ever since
your union with her, by the ungrudging labour of her brain and hand, has
sufficient sense of justice and self-respect to continue no longer in
that eminently unpractical mode of action. We must for the future live
apart; for I cannot consent to share your attentions with one stage
_artiste_ or any number of stage _artistes_. I do not choose to pay for
their jewels; and your generous offer to settle Lady Brancewith’s bills
for her does not meet with my consent or approval.’