Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  ‘My dear!’ she exclaimed, ‘how delightful you look, and what a perfectly lovely room! I have seen it often before, of course, and yet it seems to me always lovelier! And you, too! — what a sweet gown! Oh, my dear, I have such fun to tell you; I know you didn’t expect to see me! I got away from the Riviera much sooner than I thought I should. All my money went at Monte Carlo in the most frightfully rapid way, and so I came back to town — one can have larks in town as well as anywhere else, without the temptation of that dear, wicked, fascinating Casino! And, my dear, nothing is talked of but your book; everybody’s waiting for it with the greatest impatience — it’s finished, isn’t it? In the hands of the publishers! How delightful! And, of course, you have got loads of money for it? How nice for you, and for that glorious-looking husband of yours! And you are looking so well! No tea, dearest, thank you! Oh, I really must take off my cloak a moment — thanks! Is there anyone else coming to-day? Oh, of course, you always have crowds! That is why I want to tell you what fun we had last night; Lord Carlyon never expected we should see him, you know!’

  Delicia looked up from the tea tray whither she had moved on the impulse of hospitality. She had not spoken; she knew Mrs Lefroy of old, and was aware that it was better to let her have her talk out.

  ‘Of course,’ went on Mrs Lefroy, ‘you have heard of Marina, the new dancer — the girl who appears on the stage like a hooded cobra, and gradually winds herself out of her serpent-skin into a woman with scarcely any clothes on, and dances about among a lot of little snakes of fire, done with electricity? The one that all the men are going mad over, on account of her wonderful legs?’

  Delicia, with a slight movement, more of regret than offence, nodded.

  ‘Well, we were having supper at the Savoy last night, and what do you think, my dear!’ And here Mrs Lefroy clasped her well-gloved hands together in a kind of slander-mongering ecstasy. ‘Who should come in and sit down at the very next table, but Lord Carlyon and this very Marina!’

  Delicia turned round slowly, her eyes shining, and a smile on her mouth.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  Mrs Lefroy’s nose reddened through the powder, and she tossed her head.

  ‘Well? Is that all you say — well? I should certainly find some more forcible observation than that, if I heard of my husband taking the Marina to supper at the Savoy!’

  ‘Would you?’ said Delicia, smiling. ‘But then, you see, I am not you, and your husband is not my husband. There’s all the difference! Besides, men are free to amuse themselves in their own way, provided they wrong no one by doing so.’

  ‘With “creatures” like Marina?’ inquired Mrs Lefroy, with a wide smile. ‘Really, my dear, you are extremely tolerant! Do you know that even Paul Valdis, an actor — and you wouldn’t think he was particular — would not be seen with the Cobra person!’

  ‘Mr Valdis chooses his own associates, no doubt, to please his own taste,’ said Delicia, quietly. ‘It is nothing to me whether he would be seen with the Cobra person, as you call her, or whether he would not. If my husband likes to talk to her, there must be something clever about her, and something nice, too, I should imagine. All dancers are not demons.’

  ‘My poor Delicia!’ exclaimed Mrs Lefroy. ‘Really, you are too unsuspicious and sweet for anything! If you would only let me open your eyes a little—’

  ‘The Duke and Duchess of Mortlands,’ announced the maid-in-waiting at this juncture; and the conversation was broken off for the reception of a very stately old lady and a very jolly old gentleman. The old gentleman took a cup of tea, and bowed so often to Delicia over it that he spilt some drops of tea down his waistcoat, while his portly spouse spread cake-crumbs profusely over the broad expanse known to dressmakers and tailors as the ‘bust measurement.’ They were charming old people, though untidy; and being of an immensely ancient family, their ancestors having had something to do with the Battle of Crecy, they admired Delicia for herself and her brilliant gifts alone, even to the forgetting of her married name occasionally, and to the calling of her ‘Miss Vaughan,’ for which slip they instantly apologised. Numbers of people now began to arrive, and Delicia’s drawing-rooms were soon full. A famous Swedish cantatrice came among others, and in her own pleasant way offered to sing a ‘Mountain Melody’ of her native land. Her rich voice was still pealing through the air when there was a slight stir and excitement among the silent listeners to the music, and Paul Valdis entered unannounced. He stood near the door till the song that was being sung had ended, then he advanced towards Delicia, who greeted him with her usual simple grace, and showed no more effusion towards him than she had shown to the old duke who had spilt his tea. He was pale and somewhat absent-minded; though he talked generalities with several people present, much as he disliked talking generalities. Now and then he became gloomy and curt of speech, and at such moments, Mrs Lefroy, watching him, felt that she would have given worlds to stay on and hide herself somewhere behind a curtain that she might see how he was going to comport himself after the gabbling crowd had gone. But she had already stayed more than an hour — she would get no more chance of talking to Delicia — she was obliged to go home and dress for a dinner-party that evening; so finally she reluctantly made the best of a bad business, and glided up to her hostess to say good-bye.

  ‘So sorry to be going!’ she murmured. ‘I really wish I could have a few minutes’ private talk with you! But you are such a busy woman!’

  ‘Yes, I am!’ agreed Delicia, smiling. ‘However, opportunities for talking scandal always turn up sometime or other — don’t you find it so?’

  Mrs Lefroy was not quite proof against this delicate home-thrust. She felt distinctly angry. But there was no time to show it. She forced a smile and went — determining within herself that some day she would shake the classic composure of the ‘female authoress’ to its very foundations, and make of her a trembling, weak, jealous woman like many others whom she knew who were blessed with husbands like Lord Carlyon.

  Gradually the ‘after-tea’ crowd dispersed, and Delicia was left alone with only one remaining visitor — Paul Valdis. The dog Spartan rose from the corner where he had lain peacefully retired from view during the crush of visitors, and advancing majestically, with wagging tail, laid a big head caressingly on the actor’s knee. Valdis patted him and spoke out his thought involuntarily.

  ‘One, at least, out of your many friends, is honest, Lady Carlyon,’ he said.

  Delicia, somewhat fatigued with the business of receiving her guests, had seated herself in a low arm-chair, her head leaning back on a cushion, and now she looked round, slightly smiling. ‘You mean Spartan?’ she said, ‘or yourself?’

  ‘I mean Spartan,’ he replied, with a touch of passion; ‘A dog may be honest without offence to the world in general, but a man must never be honest, unless he wishes to be considered a fool or a madman, or both.’

  She regarded him intently for a moment. Her artistic eye quickly took note of the attractive points of his face and figure, and, with the perception of a student of character, she appreciated the firm and manly lines of the well-shaped hand that rested on Spartan’s head, but it was with the admiration which she would have given to a fine picture more readily than to a living being. Something, however, troubled her as she looked, for she saw that he was suppressing some strong emotion in her presence, and her first thought was that the English version of ‘Ernani’ was going to prove a failure.

  ‘You speak bitterly, Mr Valdis,’ she said, after a pause, ‘and yet you ought not to do so, considering the brilliancy of your position and your immense popularity.’

  ‘Does a brilliant position and immense popularity satisfy a man, do you think?’ he asked, not looking at her, but keeping his gaze on the honest brown eyes of Spartan, who, with the quaint conceit of a handsome dog who knows his own value, went on wagging his tail, under the impression that the conversation was addressed to him alone. ‘Though I suppose it ought to satisfy an actor, who, by some folks
, is considered hardly a man at all. But if we talk of position and popularity, you far outbalance me in honours — and are you satisfied?’

  ‘Perfectly!’ and Delicia smiled full into his eyes; ‘I should, indeed, be ungrateful if I were not.’

  He made a slight movement of impatience.

  ‘Ungrateful! How strange that word sounds from your lips! Why use it at all? You are surely the last person on earth who should speak of gratitude, for you owe no one anything. You have worked for your fame, — worked harder than anyone I know, — and you have won it; you have given out the treasures of your genius to the public, and they reward you by their love and honour; it is a natural sequence of cause and effect. There is no reason why you should be grateful for what is merely the just recognition of your worth.’

  ‘You think not?’ said Delicia, still smiling. ‘Ah, but I cannot quite agree with you! You see there have been so many who have toiled for fame and never won it, — so many who have poured out the “treasures of their genius,” to quote your own words, on a totally unappreciative world which has never recognised them till long after they are dead. And that is why I consider one cannot be too grateful for a little kindness from one’s fellow-creatures while one is living; though, if you ask the Press people, they will tell you it’s a very bad sign of your quality as an author if you succeed. The only proofs of true genius are, never to sell one’s books at all, die burdened with debts and difficulties, and leave your name and fame to be glorified by a posterity whom you will never know!’

  Valdis laughed; and Delicia, her eyes sparkling with fun, rose from her chair and took up a newspaper from one of the side tables close by.

  ‘Listen!’ she said. ‘This appears in yesterday’s Morning Chanticleer, apropos of your humble servant— “The rampant lady-novelist, known as Delicia Vaughan, is at it again. Not content with having married ‘Beauty’ Carlyon of the Guards, who has just stepped into his deceased brother’s titled shoes and is now Lord Carlyon, she is about to issue a scathing book on the manners and morals of the present age, written, no doubt, in the usual hysterical style affected by female poseurs in literature, whose works appeal chiefly to residents up Brixton and Clapham way. We regret that ‘Lady’ Carlyon does not see the necessity of ‘assuming dignity,’ even if she hath it not, on her elevation, through her husband, to the circles of the ‘upper ten.’” There, what do you think of that?’ she asked gaily, as she flung the journal down.

  Valdis had risen, and stood confronting her with frowning brow and flashing eyes. ‘Think of it!’ he said angrily, ‘Why, that I should like to horse-whip the dirty blackguard who wrote it!’

  Delicia looked up at him in genuine amazement.

  ‘Dear me!’ she exclaimed playfully. ‘But why so fierce, friend Ernani? This is nothing — nothing at all to what the papers generally say of me. I don’t mind it in the least; it rather amuses me, on the whole.’

  ‘But don’t you see how they mistake the position?’ exclaimed Valdis, impetuously. ‘Don’t you see that they are giving your husband all the honour of elevation to the circles of the upper ten; as if you were not there already by the merit of your genius alone! What would Lord Carlyon be without you, even were he twenty times a lord! He owes everything to you, and to your brain-work; he is nothing in himself, and less than nothing! There, — I have gone too far!’

  Delicia stood very still; her face was pale, and her beautiful eyes were cold in their shining as the gleam of stars in frosty weather.

  ‘Yes, you have gone too far, Mr Valdis,’ she said, ‘and I am sorry — for we were friends.’

  She laid the slightest little emphasis on the word ‘were,’ and the strong heart of the man who loved her sank heavily with a forlorn sense of misery. But the inward rage that consumed him to think that she — the patient, loving woman, who coined wealth by her own unassisted work, while her husband spent the money and amused himself with her earnings — should be publicly sneered at as a nothing, and her worser-half toadied and flattered as if he were a Yankee millionaire in his own right, was stronger than the personal passion he entertained for her, and his manful resentment of the position could not be repressed.

  ‘I am sorry too, Lady Carlyon,’ he said hoarsely, avoiding her gaze, ‘for I do not feel I can retract anything I have said.’

  There was a silence. Delicia was deeply displeased; yet with her displeasure there was mingled a vague sense of uneasiness and fear. She found it difficult to maintain her self-possession; there was something in the defiant look and attitude of Valdis that almost moved her to give way to a sudden, undignified outburst of anger. She was tempted to cry out to him, ‘What is it you are hiding from me? There is something — tell me all you know!’

  But she bit her lips hard, and laid her hand on Spartan’s collar to somewhat conceal its trembling. Thus standing, she bent her head with grave grace and courtesy.

  ‘Good-bye, Mr Valdis!’

  He started, and looked at her half imploringly. The simple words were his dismissal, and he knew it. Because he had, in that unguarded moment, spoken a word in dispraise of the glorious six feet of husband, the doors of Delicia’s house would henceforth be closed to him, and the fair presence of Delicia herself would be denied to his sight. It was a blow — but he was a man, and he took his punishment manfully.

  ‘Good-bye, Lady Carlyon,’ he said. ‘I deserve little consideration at your hands, but I will ask you not to condemn me altogether as a discourteous churl and boor, till — till you know a few things of which you are now happily ignorant. Were I a selfish man, I should wish you to be enlightened speedily concerning these matters; but being, God knows! your true friend’ — here his voice trembled— ‘I pray you may remain a long time yet in the purest paradise known on earth — the paradise of a loving soul’s illusion. My hand shall not destroy one blossom in your fairy garden! In old days of chivalry, beautiful and beloved women had champions to defend their honour and renown, and fight for them if needful; and though the old days are no longer with us, chivalry is not quite dead, so that if ever you need a champion — heavens! what am I saying? No wonder you look scornful! Lady Delicia Carlyon to need the championship of an actor! The thing is manifestly absurd! You, in your position, can help me by your influence, but I can do nothing to help you — if by chance you should ever need help. I am talking wildly, and deepening my offences in your eyes; perhaps, however, you will think better of me some day. And so good-bye again — I cannot ask you to forgive me. If ever you desire to see me once more, I will come at your command — but not till then.’

  Inflexibly she stood, without offering him her hand in farewell. But he desperately caught that hand, and kissed it with the ardour of an Ernani and Romeo intermingled, then he turned and left the room. Delicia listened to his retreating footsteps as he descended the stairs and passed into the hall below, then she heard the street door close. A great sigh of relief broke from her lips; he was gone, — this impertinent actor who had presumed to say that her husband was ‘nothing, and less than nothing’ — he was gone, and he would probably never come back. She looked down at Spartan, and found the dog’s eyes were turned up to hers in inquiring wonder and sadness. As plainly as any animal could speak by mere expression, he was saying, —

  ‘What is the matter with Valdis? He is a friend of mine, and why have you driven him away?’

  ‘Spartan, dear,’ she said, drawing him towards her, ‘he is a very conceited man, and he says unkind things about our dear master, and we do not intend to let him come near us any more! These great actors always get spoilt, and think they are lords almighty, and presume to pass judgment on much better men than themselves. Paul Valdis is being so run after and so ridiculously flattered that he will soon become quite unbearable.’

  Spartan sighed profoundly; he was not entirely satisfied in his canine mind. He gave one or two longing and wistful glances towards the door, but his wandering thoughts were quickly recalled to his immediate surroundings by the feeling
of something warm and wet dropping on his head. It was a tear, — a bright tear, fallen from the beautiful eyes of his mistress, — and in anxious haste he pressed his rough body close against her with a mute caress of inquiring sympathy. In very truth Delicia was crying, — quietly and in a secret way, as though ashamed to acknowledge her emotion even to herself. As a rule, she liked to be able to give a reason for her feelings, but on this occasion she found it impossible to make any analysis of the cause of her tears. Yet they fell fast, and she wiped them away quickly with a little filmy handkerchief as fine as a cobweb, which Spartan, moved by a sudden desire to provide her with some harmless distraction from melancholy, made uncouth attempts to secure as a plaything. He succeeded so far in his clumsy gambols as to bring the flicker of a smile on her face at last, whereat he rejoiced exceedingly, and wagged his tail with a violence that threatened to entirely dislocate that useful member. In a few minutes she was quite herself again, and when her husband returned to dinner, met him with the usual beautiful composure that always distinguished her bearing, though there was an air of thoughtful resolve about her which accentuated the delicate lines of her features and made her look more intellectually classic than ever. When she took her seat at table that evening, her statuesque serenity, combined with her fair face, steadfast eyes, and rich hair knotted loosely at the back of her well-shaped head, gave her so much the aspect of something far superior to the ordinary run of mortal women, that Carlyon, fresh from a game of baccarat, where he had lost over three hundred pounds in a couple of hours, was conscious of a smarting sense of undefinable annoyance.

  ‘I wish you could keep our name out of the papers,’ he said suddenly, when dessert was placed before them, and the servants had withdrawn; ‘it is most annoying to me to see it constantly cropping up in all manner of vulgar society paragraphs.’