Chapter V: Part 5

‘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!’