Part 4

And he played that night, not for Royalty, which clapped its lavender kid gloves at him in as much enthusiastic approval as Royalty ever shows, but for her new ‘ladyship,’ who sat in a box overlooking the stage, dressed in pure white with a knot of lilies at her bosom, dreamily unconscious that Ernani was anything but Ernani, or that Valdis was putting his own fiery soul into Victor Hugo’s dummy, and making it live, breathe and burn with a passionate ardour never equalled on the stage, and of which she, Delicia, was the chief inspiration.

Delicia was, in very truth, curiously unconscious of the excitement and unrest she always managed to create around herself unintentionally. Her strong individuality was to blame, but she was as unaware of the singular influence she exerted as a rose is unaware of the fragrance its sheds. Everything she did was watched and commented upon—her manners, her dress, her gestures, the very turn of her head, and the slow, supple movements of her body. And society was for ever on the lookout for a glance, a sigh, a word which might indicate the ‘dropping of the handkerchief’ to Paul Valdis. But the closest espionage failed to discover anything compromising in Delicia’s way of life or daily conduct. This caused the fury of the Tookseys and Snookseys to rage unabatedly, while, so far as Delicia herself was concerned, she had no thought beyond the usual two subjects which absorbed her existence—her work and her husband. Her title made no sort of difference to her in herself—‘Delicia Vaughan’ was still the charmed name wherewith she ‘drew’ her public, many of whom scarcely glanced at the ‘Lady Carlyon’ printed in small type between brackets, underneath the more famous appellation on the title-pages of all her books. And in her own mind she was more amused than edified by the flunkey-like attention shown to her ‘ladyship’ honours.

‘How nice for you,’ said a female acquaintance to her on one of her visiting days, ‘to have a title! Such a distinction for literature, isn’t it?’

‘Not at all!’ answered Delicia, tranquilly, ‘It is a distinction for the title to have literature attached to it!’

The female acquaintance started violently.

‘Dear me!’ and she tittered; ‘You really—er—excuse me! seem to have a very good opinion of yourself!’

Delicia’s delicate brows drew together in a proud line.

‘You mistake,’ she said; ‘I have no good opinion of myself at all, but I have of Literature. Perhaps you will more clearly understand what I mean if I remind you that there have been several Lord Byrons, but Literature makes it impossible to universally recognise more than one. Literature can add honour to the peerage, but the peerage can never add honour to Literature—not, at any rate, to what _I_ understand as Literature.’

‘And what is your definition of Literature, Lady Carlyon, may I ask?’ inquired a deferential listener to the conversation.

‘Power!’ replied Delicia, closing her small, white hand slowly and firmly, as though she held the sceptre of an empire in its grasp. ‘The power to make men and women think, hope and achieve; the power to draw tears from the eyes, smiles from the lips of thousands; the power to make tyrants tremble, and unseat false judges in authority; the power to strip hypocrisy of its seeming fair disguise, and to brand liars with their name writ large for all the world to see!’

The female acquaintance got up, disturbed in her mind. She did not like the look of Delicia’s violet eyes which flashed like straight shafts of light deep into the dark recesses of her soul.

‘I must be going,’ she murmured. ‘So sorry! It’s quite delightful to hear you talk, Lady Carlyon, you are so very eloquent!—but I have another call to make—he-he-he!—good afternoon!’

But the Deferential Listener lingered, strangely moved.

‘I wish there were more writers who felt as you do, Lady Carlyon!’ he said gently. ‘I knew you first as Delicia Vaughan, and loved your books—’

‘I hope you will try and love them still,’ she said simply. ‘There is no difference, I assure you, between Delicia Vaughan and Lady Carlyon; they are, and always will be, the same working woman!’

She gave him her hand in parting; he stooped low, kissed it and went. Left alone with the great dog, Spartan, she sat looking musingly up at the glossy, spreading leaves of the giant palm that towered up to the ceiling from a painted Sèvres vase in the middle of her drawing-room, and almost for the first time in her life a faint shadow of trouble and uneasiness clouded her bright nature.

‘How I do hate humbug!’ she thought. ‘It seems to me that I have had to put up with so much more of it lately than I ever had before; it’s this wretched title, I suppose. I wish I could dispense with it altogether; it does not please me, though it pleases Will. He is so good-natured that he does not seem able to distinguish between friends, and others who are mere toadies. It would be a good thing for me if I had the same unsuspecting disposition; but, most unfortunately, I see things as they are—not as they appear to be.’

And this was true. She did see things clearly and comprehensively always;—except in one direction. There she was totally blind. But in her blindness lay all her happiness, and though the rose-coloured veil of illusion was wearing thin, no rent had yet been made in it.

It was her ‘at home’ day, and she sat waiting resignedly for the callers who usually flocked to her between five and six in the afternoon. The two people who had come and gone, namely, the Female Acquaintance and the Deferential Listener, had been chance visitors out of the ordinary run. And it was only half-past four when a loud ring at the bell made Spartan growl and look to his mistress for orders to bite, if necessary.

‘Quiet, Spartan!’ said Delicia, gently. ‘We are “at home” to-day, you know! You mustn’t bark at anybody.’

Spartan rolled his eyes discontentedly. He hated ‘at home’ days, and he went off in a far corner of the drawing-room, where there was a convenient bear-skin rug to lie on; there he curled himself up to sleep. Meanwhile the visitor who had rung the bell so violently was announced—‘Mrs Lefroy,’—and Delicia rose, with a slightly weary and vexed air, as a handsome woman, over-dressed and over-powdered, entered the room; her white teeth bared to view in the English ‘society smile.’

‘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.’