‘Your estimate of what is called a “clever” woman is as low as that of
most men. I do not especially blame you for being like the rest of your
sex in that one particular. Women who will not become as dirt under a
man’s foot, to be trodden on first, then kicked aside, are generally
termed “unsexed,” because they will not lower themselves to the man’s
brute level. Nothing is more unnatural from a man’s point of view than
that a woman should have brains,—and with those brains make money and
position often superior to his, and at any rate manage to be independent
of him. What men prefer is that their wives should be the slaves of
their humour, and receive a five-pound note with deep thankfulness
whenever they can get it, shutting their eyes to the fact that people
like “Marina” get twenty pounds to their five from the same quarter.
But you,—you have had nothing to complain of in the way of a pecuniary
position, though I, as bread-winner, might readily have comported myself
after approved masculine examples and given you five pounds where I
spent twenty on myself and my own pleasure. But I did nothing of this
sort; on the contrary, I have trusted you with half of everything I
earned, believing you to be honest; believing that, of all men in the
world, you would never cheat, defraud, or otherwise deceive me. And not
only have you made a mock of me in society, but you have even helped to
vilify my name. For it was distinctly your business to chastise the
writer of that lying paragraph in the paper; but you left me to be
defended by one who shares with me the drawback of being a “public
character,” and with whom I have no connection whatever beyond that of
friendship, as you perfectly well know. Why, I have heard of men,
well-born, too, and of considerable social attainment, who have been
willing enough to fight for the so-called “honour” of an admitted
_demi-mondaine_; but for an honest woman and faithful wife, who is there
in these days that will stir a finger to defend her from slander! Very
few; least of all her husband! To such a height has nineteenth-century
morality risen! I, who have been true to you in every thought, word and
deed, am rewarded by your open infidelity, and for my work, which has at
any rate kept you in ease and comfort, I am called “unsexed,” despite my
pains! If I chose, I could fling you back your insult; for a man who
lives on a woman’s earnings is more “unsexed” than the woman who earns.
I never thought of this before; my love was too blind, too passionate.
Now I do think of it; and thinking, I wonder at myself and you!’
He dropped lazily into a chair and looked at her.
‘I suppose your temper will be over presently,’ he said, ‘and you will
see things in a more reasonable light. You must remember I have given
you a great position, Delicia; I think our marriage has been one of
perfect mutual benefit. “Literary” women hardly ever get a chance of
marrying at all, you know; men are afraid of them—won’t marry them on
any account;—would rather have a barmaid, really—and when a “literary”
woman gets into the aristocracy and all that—well, by Jove!—it’s a
splendid thing for her, you know, and gives her a great lift! As for
being unfaithful to you, why, there is not a man in my “set” who is
absolutely immaculate; I am no worse than any of them—in fact, I am much
better. You read so much, and you write so much, that you ought to know
these things without my telling them to you. “Give and take” is the only
possible rule in marriage, and I really thought you would have good
sense enough to admit it—’
Delicia regarded him with a chill smile.
‘I think I _have_ admitted it!’ she said ironically. ‘Fully and freely!
For I have given everything; equally you have taken everything! That is
plain enough. And now you insult me afresh by the suggestion that it
was really a condescension on your part to marry me at all, I being
“literary”! If I had been a music-hall dancer, of course you would have
been much prouder of me; it would have been something indeed worth
boasting of, to say your wife had originally been famous for a
break-down or can-can at the “Empire!” But because I follow, with what
force and ability I can, the steps of the truly great, who have helped
to mould the thoughts and feelings of men and nations, it is quite
extraordinary I should have found a husband at all! Wonderful! And you
have given me a great position, you assert. I confess I fail to
perceive it! If you consider your title something of value, I am sorry
for you; to me it is a nothing. In the old days of chivalry titles
meant honour; now they have become, for the most part, the mere results
of wealth and back-stair influence. Yours is an old title, I grant you
that; but what does it matter? The latest brewer raised to the peerage
puts himself on an equality with you, whether you like it or not. But
between me—untitled Delicia Vaughan—and the self-same peer of the
ale-cask, there is a great gulf fixed; and not all his wealth can put
him on an equality with _me_, or with any author who has once won the
love of nations. And so, Lord Carlyon, permit me to return your title,
for I shall not wear it. When we separate I shall keep to my own name
simply; thus I shall owe you nothing, not even _prestige_!’
Carlyon suddenly lifted his fine eyes and flashed them effectively at
her.
‘You are talking nonsense, Delicia,’ he said impatiently. ‘You know you
don’t really mean that we are to separate. Why,’ this with the most
naïve conceit, ‘what will you do without me?’
She met his gaze without the least emotion.
‘I shall continue to live, I suppose,’ she replied, ‘or I shall die, one
of the two. It really doesn’t matter which.’
There was a slight tremor in her voice, and emboldened by it he sprang
up and tried to put his arm round her. She recoiled from him swiftly,
thrusting him back.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she cried wildly. ‘Don’t dare to come near me! I
cannot answer for myself if you do; this shall defend me from you if
necessary!’
And almost before he could realise it she had snatched a small,
silver-mounted pistol from its case on a shelf hard by, and, holding it
in her hand, she stood as it were at bay.
He gave a short, embarrassed laugh.
‘You have gone mad, Delicia!’ he said. ‘Put down that thing. It isn’t
loaded, of course; but it doesn’t look pretty to see you with it.’
‘No, it doesn’t look pretty,’ she responded slowly. ‘But it _is_
loaded! I took care of that before you came in! I don’t want to injure
either you or myself; but I swear to you that if you come closer to me
by one step, presume to offer me such an insult as your caress would be
to me _now_, I will kill you!’
Her white figure was firm as that of some menacing fate carved in
marble; her pale face, with the violet eyes set in it like flashing
stars, had a marvellous power and passion imprinted on its every line,
and despite himself he fell back startled and in a manner appalled.
‘I have gone mad, you think?’ she went on. ‘If I had, would it be
wonderful? To have one’s dearest hopes ruined, one’s heart broken,
one’s life made waste—is that not something of a cause for madness? But
I am not mad; I am simply resolved that your lips, which have bestowed
their kisses on “la Marina,” shall never touch mine again; that your
arms, which have embraced her, shall never embrace me, and that, come
what will, I will keep my self-respect if I die for it! Now you know my
mind, you will go your way; I mine. I cannot divorce you; for though
you have murdered my very soul in me, brutally and pitilessly, you have
not been “cruel” according to legal opinion. But I can separate from
you—thank God for that! I cannot marry again. Heaven forbid that I
should ever desire to do so! Neither can you; but you will not wish for
that unless you meet with an American heiress with several millions,
which you may have the chance of doing when I am dead—someone who has
inherited her money and has not _worked_ for it as I
have,—honestly,—thereby becoming “unsexed!”’
He stood silent for a minute.
‘You actually mean to say you want a judicial separation?’ he inquired
at last, sullenly.
She bent her head in the affirmative.
‘Well, you can get that, of course. But I must say, Delicia, of all the
ungrateful, heartless women, you are the very worst! I should never
have thought it of you! I imagined you had such a noble nature! So
sweet and loving and forgiving! Good heavens! After all, what have I
done? Just had a bit of fun with a dancing girl! Quite a common
amusement with men of my class!’
‘I have no doubt of it,’ she answered; ‘Very common! All the same, I do
not choose to either tolerate it or pay for it. Ungrateful, heartless
“unsexed”! This is my character, according to your estimate of me. I
thank you! Poor Love’s last breath went in that final blow from the
rough fist of ingratitude! I will not detain you any longer; in truth,
you need not have stayed so long. I merely wished to let you know my
decision. I had no intention to either upbraid you or condemn.
Reproaches or complaints, however just, could leave no impression on a
temperament like yours. I will see my lawyers to-morrow, and in a very
short space of time you will be free of my company for ever. Shall we
say good-bye now?’
She raised her eyes,—her gold hair shone about her like an aureole, and
a sudden sweetness softened her face, though its gravity was unchanged.
A sharp pang of remorse and sorrow stabbed him through and through, and
he looked at her in mingled abasement and yearning.
‘Delicia—must we part?’
He whispered the question, half in hope half in fear.
She regarded him steadily.
‘Dare you ask it? Can you imagine I could love you again after what has
passed? Some women might do so—I could not.’
He stood irresolute; there was a mean and selfish trouble at his heart
to which he could not give utterance for very shame’s sake. He was
really wondering what arrangements she meant to make for his future, but
some few of the better instincts of manhood rose up within him
protestingly, and bade him hold his peace. Still the brooding
egotistical thought lingered in him and made him angry; he grew more and
more wrathful as he realised that she,—this woman, whose whole life and
devotion he had had so recently in his keeping,—had suddenly fathomed
his true nature and cast him from her as something contemptible, and
that she—she had the power to maintain herself free of him in wealth and
ease, whilst he, if she were at all malevolently inclined, would have to
return to the state of semi-poverty and ‘living on tick,’ which had been
his daily and yearly lot before he met her. Inwardly he cursed ‘la
Marina,’ Lily Brancewith and everybody, except himself. He never
thought of including his own vices in the general big ‘Damn!’ he was
mentally uttering. And as he hesitated, shuffling one foot against the
other, a prey to the most disagreeable reflections, Delicia advanced a
step and held out her hands.
‘Good-bye, Will! I loved you once very deeply; a few days ago you were
everything to me, and for the sake of that love, which has so suddenly
perished and is dead for ever, let us part in peace!’
But he turned from her roughly.
‘Oh, it is all very well for you!’ he said. ‘You can afford to talk all
this high-falutin’ rubbish, and give yourself airs and graces, but I am
a poor devil of a fellow always getting into a hole; and it isn’t to be
supposed that I am going to take my dismissal in this way, just as if I
were a lackey. I am your husband, you know; you can’t undo that!’
‘Not at present,’ said Delicia, drawing back from him quickly, the
tenderness passing from her face and leaving it coldly disdainful. ‘But
it is very possible the Gordian knot of marriage may be cut for me
sooner or later. Death may befriend me in this matter, if nothing else
will.’
‘Death! Nonsense! I am not likely to die, nor are you. And I don’t
see what you want to get a separation for. I will go away for a time if
you like. I will make any promises you want me to make; but why you
should bring a lawyer into it, I cannot imagine. The fact is, you are
making a fuss about nothing, and I am not going to say good-bye at all.
I will take a trip abroad, and by the time I come back I daresay all
this will have blown over and you will be glad to see me.’
She said nothing, but simply turned from him, and sitting quietly down
at her desk resumed the letter she had been writing when he entered.
‘Do you hear me?’ he repeated querulously. ‘I sha’n’t say good-bye.’
She did not speak; her pen moved swiftly over the paper before her, but
otherwise she never moved.
‘I am sure it is no wonder,’ he continued crossly, ‘that the Government
protests against too much independence being allowed to women! What
tyrants they would all become if they could have everything their own
way as much as you can! Women ought to be gentle and submissive; and if
they are fortunate enough to be wealthy, they ought to use their wealth
for their husbands’ benefit. That is the natural order of creation—woman
was made to be subservient to man, and when she is not, things always go
wrong.’
Still Delicia wrote on without uttering a word.