‘Lucky dog! You don’t deserve such a “draw” in the matrimonial lottery!’
And Carlyon, smiling a superior smile, looked in a conveniently near mirror, and replied, —
‘Perhaps not! But—’
A flash of the fine eyes, and a touch of the Beautiful Sullenness manner finished the sentence. It was evident that the gallant officer was not at all in doubt as to his own value, however much other folks might be disposed to consider the pecuniary and other advantages of his marriage as altogether exceeding his merits.
Yet, on the whole, most people, with that idiotic inconsistency which characterises the general social swarm, actually pitied him when they heard what was going to happen. They made round eyes of astonishment, shook their heads and said, ‘Poor Carlyon!’ Why they made round eyes or shook their heads, they could not themselves have explained, but they did so. ‘Poor,’ Carlyon certainly was; and his tailor’s bill was an appalling one. But ‘they,’ — the five-o’clock-tea gossips, knew nothing about the tailor’s bill — that was a private affair, — one of those indecent commonplaces of life which are more or less offensive to persons of high distinction, who always find something curiously degrading in paying their tradesmen. ‘They’ saw Carlyon as he appeared to them — superb of stature, proud of bearing, and Greekly ‘god-like’ of feature — and that he was always irreproachably dressed was sufficient for them, though not for the unpaid tailor who fitted him so admirably. Looking at him in all his glory, ‘they’ shuddered at the thought that he — this splendid specimen of manhood — was actually going to marry a — what?
‘A novelist, my dear! just think of it!’ feebly screamed Mrs Tooksey over her Queen Anne silver teapot. ‘Poor Wilfred Carlyon! Such a picturesque figure of a man! How awful for him!’
And Mrs Snooksey, grabbing viciously at muffin, chorused, ‘Dreadful, isn’t it! A female authoress!’ — this, with a fine disregard of the fact that an authoress is generally a female. ‘No doubt steeped in ink and immorality! Poor Carlyon! My mother knew his father!’
This remark of Mrs Snooksey’s had evidently some profound bearing on the subject, because everybody looked politely impressed, though no one could see where the point came in.
‘She’s ugly, of course!’ tittered Miss Spitely, nervously conscious that once — once, at a ball — Carlyon had picked up her fan, and wishing she had ‘gone in’ for him then. ‘Authoresses always are, aren’t they?’
‘This one isn’t,’ put in the One Man, who through some persecuting fate always manages to turn up in a jaded and gloomy condition at these kind of ‘afternoon teas.’ ‘She’s pretty. That’s the worst of it. Of course she’ll lead Carlyon a devil of a life!’
‘Of course!’ groaned Mrs Snooksey and Mrs Tooksey in melancholy duet. ‘What else can you expect of a — of a public character? Poor, dear Carlyon! One cannot help feeling sorry for him!’
So on, and in such wise, the jumble of humanity which is called ‘society’ gabbled, sniggered and sneered; nevertheless, despite dismal head-shakings and dreary forebodings, ‘poor, dear Carlyon’ carried out his intention, and married Delicia in the presence of one of the most brilliant assemblages of notabilities ever assembled at a wedding. The marriage of a Guards officer is always a pretty sight, but when the fame of Delicia was added to the fame of the regiment, it was no wonder the affair created a sensation and a flutter in the world of fashionable news and ladies’ pictorials. Delicia astonished and irritated several members of her own sex by the extreme simplicity of her dress on the occasion. She always managed somehow, quite unintentionally, to astonish and irritate her sweet ‘sisters’ in womanhood, who, forced to admit her intellectual superiority to themselves, loved her accordingly. Thus her very wedding garment was an affront to them, being only a classic gown of softly-draped white silk crêpe-de-chine, without any adornment of either lace or flowers. Then her bridal veil was a vexatious thing, because it was so unusually becoming — it was made of white chiffon, and draped her, like a moonlight mist, from head to foot, a slender chaplet of real orange-blossoms being worn with it. And that was all — no jewels, no bouquet — she only carried a small ivory prayer-book with a plain gold cross mounted on the cover. She looked the very picture of a Greek vestal virgin, but in the eyes of the fashion-plate makers there was a deplorable lack of millinery about her. What would God think of it! Could anything be more irreverent than for a woman of position and fortune to take her marriage-vows before the altar of the Most High without wearing either a court train or diamonds! And the bridesmaids made no great ‘show’ — they were only little girls, none of them over ten years of age. There were eight of these small damsels, clad in blush-pink like human roses, and very sweet they looked following the lissom, white-veiled form of Delicia as she moved with her own peculiarly graceful step and ethereal air between the admiring rows of the selected men of her husband’s regiment, who lined either side of the chancel in honour of the occasion. The ceremony was brief; but those who were present somehow felt it to be singularly impressive. There was a faint suggestion of incongruity in the bridegroom’s eloquently-pronounced declaration— ‘With all my worldly goods I thee endow,’ which provoked one of his brother officers to profanely whisper in the ear of a friend, ‘By Jove! I don’t think he’s got anything to give her but his hair-brushes. They were a present; but most of his other things are on tick!’
This young gentleman’s unbecoming observations were promptly quashed, and the holy ordinance was concluded to the crashing strains of Mendelssohn. A considerably large crowd, moved by feelings of sincere appreciation for the union of the professions of War and Literature, waited outside the church to give the bride a cheer as she stepped into her carriage, and some of them, hustling a little in advance of the policemen on duty, and peering up towards the entrance of the sacred edifice, were rewarded by seeing the Most Distinguished Personage in the realm, smiling his ever-cordial smile, and shaking hands with the fair ‘celebrity’ just wedded. At this sight a deafening noise broke out from the throats of the honest ‘masses,’ a noise which became almost tumultuous when the Distinguished Personage walked by the side of the newly-married pair down the red-carpeted pavement from the church to the nuptial carriage-door, and lifted his hat again and again to the ‘huzzas’ which greeted him. But the Distinguished Personage did not get all the applause by any means. Delicia got the most of it, and many of the crowd pelted her with flowers which they had brought with them for the purpose. For she was one of the few ‘beloved women’ that at rare intervals are born to influence nations — so few they are and so precious in their lives and examples that it is little wonder nations make much of them when they find them. There were people in the crowd that day who had wept and smiled over Delicia’s writings, and who had, through her teaching, grown better, happier and more humane men and women; and there was a certain loving jealousy in these which grudged that she should stoop from her lofty height of fame, to marry, like any other ordinary woman. They would have had her exempt from the common lot, and yet they all desired her happiness. So in half-gladness, half-regret, they cheered her and threw roses and lilies at her, for it was the month of June; and she with her veil thrown back, and the sunshine glinting on her gold hair, smiled bewitchingly as she bowed right and left to the clamorous throng of her assembled admirers; then, with her glorious six feet of husband, she stepped into her carriage and drove away to the sound of a final cheer. The Distinguished Personage got into his brougham and departed. The brilliantly-attired guests dispersed slowly, and with much chatting and gaiety, in their different directions, and all was over. And the One Man whose earthly lot it was to appear at various ‘afternoon teas,’ stood under the church portico and muttered gloomily to an acquaintance, —
‘Fancy that simple-looking creature being actually the famous Delicia Vaughan! She isn’t in the least like an authoress — she’s only a woman!’ Whereat the acquaintance, whose intellectual resources were somewhat limited, smiled and murmured
, —
‘Oh, well, when it came to that, you know, you couldn’t expect a woman to be anything else, could you? The idea was certainly that authoresses should be — well! a sort of no-sex, ha-ha-ha! — plenty of muscle about them, but scrappy as to figure and doubtful in complexion, with a general air of spectacled wisdom — yes, ha-ha! Well, if it came to that, you know, it must be owned Miss Vaughan — beg her pardon! — Mrs Carlyon, was not by any means up to the required mark. Ha-ha-ha! Graceful little woman, though; very fascinating — and as for money — whew-w! Beauty Carlyon has fallen on his feet this time, and no mistake! Ha-ha! Good-morning!’
With this, he and the One Man nodded to each other and went in opposite directions. The verger of the church came out, glowered suspiciously at stragglers, picked up a few bridal flowers from the red carpet, and shut the church gates. There had been a wedding, he said condescendingly to one or two nursemaids who had just arrived breathlessly on the scene, wheeling perambulators in front of them, but it was over; the company had gone home. The Distinguished Personage had gone home too. Thus there was nothing to see, and nothing to wait for. Depart, disappointed nursemaids! The vow that binds two in one — that ties Intellect to Folly, Purity to Sensuality, Unselfishness to Egotism — has been taken before the Eternal; and, so far as we can tell, the Eternal has accepted it. There is nothing more to be said or done — the sacrifice is completed.
All this had happened three years ago, yet Delicia, writing peacefully as usual in the quiet seclusion of her study, remembered every incident of her wedding as though it were only yesterday. Happiness had made the time fly on swift wings, and her dream of love had as yet lost nothing of its heavenly glamour. Her marriage had caused no very perceptible change in her fortunes — she worked a little harder and more incessantly, that was all. Her husband deserved all the luxuries and enjoyments of life that she could give him — so she considered — and she was determined he should never have to complain of her lack of energy. Her fame steadily increased — she was at the very head and front of her profession — people came from far and near to have the privilege of seeing her and speaking with her, if only for a few minutes. But popular admiration was nothing to her, and she attached no importance whatever to the daily tributes she received, from all parts of the world, testifying to her genius and the influence her writings had upon the minds of thousands. Such things passed her by as the merest idle wind of rumour, and all her interests were concentrated on her work — first, for the work’s own sake, and next, that she might be a continual glory and exhaustless gold mine to her husband.
Certainly Carlyon had nothing to desire or to complain of in his destiny. A crowned king might have envied him; unweighted with care, no debts, no difficulties, a perpetual balance at his banker’s, a luxurious home, arranged not only with all the skill that wealth can command, but also with the artistic taste that only brains can supply; a lovely wife whose brilliant endowments were the talk of two continents, and last, but not least, the complete unfettered enjoyment of his own way and will. Delicia never played the domestic tyrant over him; he was free to do as he liked, go where he would and see whom he chose. She never catechised him as to the nature of his occupations or amusements, and he, on his part, was wise enough to draw a line between a certain ‘fast set’ he personally favoured, and the kind of people he introduced to her, knowing well enough that were he to commit the folly of bringing some ‘shady’ character within his wife’s circle of acquaintance, it would be only once that the presence of such a person would be tolerated by her. For she had very quick perceptions; and though her disposition was gentleness itself, she was firmly planted in rectitude, and managed to withdraw herself so quietly and cleverly from any contact with social swindlers and vulgar nouveaux riches, that they never had the ghost of a chance to gain the smallest footing with her. Unable to obtain admittance to her house, they took refuge in scandal, and invented lies and slanders concerning her, all of which fell flat owing to her frankly open life of domestic peace and contentment. Sneers and false rumours were inserted about her in the journals; she ignored them, and quietly lived them down, till finally the worst thing anyone could find to say of her was that she was ‘idiotically in love’ with her own husband.
‘She’s a perfect fool about him!’ exclaimed the Tookseys and Snookseys, angrily. ‘Everybody knows Paul Valdis is madly in love with her. It’s only she who never seems to see it!’ ‘Perhaps she does not approve of the French fashion of having a lover as well as a husband,’ suggested a Casual Caller of the male sex. ‘Though it is now la mode in England, she may not like it. Besides, Paul Valdis has been “madly in love,” as you call it, a great many times!’
The Tookseys and Snookseys sighed, shivered, rolled up their eyes and shrugged their shoulders. They were old and ugly and yellow of skin; but their hearts had a few lively pulsations of evil left in them still, and they envied and marvelled at the luck of a woman — a literary female, too, good heavens! to think of it! — who not only had the handsomest man in town for a husband, but who could also have the next handsomest — Paul Valdis, the great actor — for a lover, if she but ‘dropped the handkerchief.’
And while ‘society’ thus talked, Delicia worked, coining money for her husband to spend as he listed. She reserved her household expenses, and took a moderate share of her earnings for her own dress, but all the rest was his. He drove ‘tandem’ in the Row with two of the most superb horses ever seen in that fashionable thoroughfare. In the early spring mornings he was seen cantering up and down on a magnificent Arab, which for breed and action was the envy of princes. He had his own four-in-hand coach, which he drove to Ranelagh, Hurlingham, and the various race meetings of the year, with a party of ‘select’ people on top — the kind of ‘select’ whom Delicia never knew or cared to know, consisting of actresses, betting men, ‘swells about town,’ and a sprinkling of titled dames, who had frankly thrown over their husbands in order to drink brandy privately, and play the female Don Juan publicly. Occasionally a ‘candid friend,’ moved by a laudable desire to make mischief between husband and wife, would arrive, full-armed at all points with gossip, and would casually remark to Delicia, —
‘Oh, by the way, I saw your husband at Ranelagh the other day with — well! — some rather odd people!’ To which Delicia would reply tranquilly, ‘Did you? I hope he was amusing himself.’ Then with a straight, half-disdainful look of her violet eyes at the intruding meddler, she would add, ‘I know what you mean, of course! But it is a man’s privilege to entertain himself in his own fashion, even with “odd” people if he likes. “Odd” people are always infinitely diverting, owing to their never being able to recognise their own abnormal absurdity. And I never play spy on my husband. I consider a wife who condescends to become a detective as the most contemptible of creatures living.’
Whereupon the ‘candid friend,’ vexed and baffled, would retire behind an entrenchment of generalities, and afterwards, at ‘afternoons’ and social gatherings, would publicly opine that, ‘It was most probable Mrs Carlyon was carrying on a little game of her own, as she seemed so indifferent to her husband’s goings-on. She was a deep one, oh, yes! very deep! She knew a thing or two! — and perhaps, who could tell? — Paul Valdis had his own reasons for specially “fixing” her with his dark, passionate eyes whenever she appeared in her box at the theatre where he was playing the chief character in an English version of “Ernani.”
It was true enough that Delicia was hardly ever seen at the places her husband most frequented, but this happened because he was fond of racing and she was not. She disliked the senseless, selfish and avaricious side of life so glaringly presented at the favourite ‘turf’ resorts of the ‘swagger’ set, and said so openly.
‘It makes me think badly of everybody,’ she declared once to her husband, when he had languidly suggested her ‘turning up’ at the Oaks. ‘I begin to wonder what was the use of Christ dying on the cross to redeem such greedy, foolish folk. I don’t want to des
pise my fellow-creatures, but I’m obliged to do it when I go to a race. So it’s better I should stay at home and write, and try to think of them all as well as I can.’
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 396
