Chapter VI
It was no impetus of feminine recrimination or spite that had caused Delicia to go out on that particular evening, and thus deprive her husband of her society in the same abrupt fashion with which he had so often deprived her of his. Mr and Mrs Cavendish were old friends of hers. They had known her when she was a little orphan girl with no brothers or sisters—no companions of her own age to amuse her—nothing, in fact, but her own pensive and romantic thoughts, which had, though she then knew it not, helped to weave her now brilliant destiny. They were elderly, childless people, and they had always been devoted to Delicia, so that when Mrs Cavendish paid an unexpected call in the afternoon and stated that she and her husband were ‘mopy,’ and that they would take it very kindly if Delicia would come and dine with them, and afterwards accompany them to the ‘Empire,’ for which they had a box near the stage, Delicia readily accepted the proposition as a welcome change from her own uncomfortable and unprofitable thoughts. To begin with, she had grown so accustomed now to her husband’s telegrams announcing that he would not be back to dinner, that she accepted his absence as a far greater probability than his home-returning. Therefore she was glad of the chance of dining in friendly company. Next, the idea of going to the ‘Empire’ filled her with a certain sense of pained curiosity and excitement. La Marina was the chief attraction there, and she had never seen her. So she shut up her books and papers, put on a simple black skirt, and a pretty blouse of soft pink chiffon, daintily adorned with a shoulder-knot of roses, tied her rich hair up, in the fashion of the picture of Madame le Brun, with a strip of pink ribbon, bade good-bye to Spartan, gave him her glove to guard by way of consolation, and then went with her old friend, leaving for her husband, in case he should return, the brief note that had vexed his high mightiness so seriously. And it was with a strained anticipation and sharp unrest that she sat in the box at the ‘Empire,’ withdrawn from view as much as possible, and waited for the appearance of the famous dancer, whose performance was advertised on the programme as ‘Marvellous Evolution! The Birth of a Butterfly! La Marina!’ The music-hall was crowded, and looking down on the densely-packed arena, she saw rows and rows of men, smoking, grinning, whispering in each other’s ears,—some sitting squat in their fauteuils, with the bulging appearance of over-filled flour sacks, the extended feet beyond the sacks, and the apoplectically swelled heads on the tops thereof, suggestive of the full meals just enjoyed,—others, standing up with opera glasses levelled at the promenade, or else leering in the same direction without glasses at all. There were young men, sodden and stupid with smoke and drink,—and old men, blear-eyed and weak-jointed, painfully endeavouring to assume the airs of joyous juvenility. There were fast women, with eyelashes so darkened with kohl as to give them the appearance at a distance of having no eyes at all, but only black sockets;—middle-aged frowsy feminine topers, whose very expression of face intimated a ‘looking forward to the next glass,’—and a few almost palsy-stricken antiquities of womanhood, the possible ruins of fifty-year-ago ballet-girls and toe-and-heel stage ‘fairies,’ who sat in the stalls twisting their poor old mouths into the contortion of a coquettish smile—a contortion dreadfully reminding one of the way a skull grins when some careless gravedigger throws it out of the mould where it has hidden its ghastly mirth for perhaps twenty years. All this seething witches’ cauldron of life, Delicia looked down upon with a mingling of shame and sorrow. Were these low-looking creatures real humanity?—the humanity which God created and redeemed? Surely not! They were more like apes than human beings—how was it?—and why was it? She was still pondering the question when old Mr Cavendish spoke.
‘Not a very distinguished audience, is it, Delicia?’ he said. He had called her Delicia from childhood, and he did not care, at the age of sixty-five, to break himself of the pleasant habit.
‘No,’ she replied, with a faint smile; ‘I have never been here before. Have you?’
‘Oh, yes, often; and so has my wife. The great advantage of music-halls like these is that one can come and be entertained at any moment of the evening without being forced to devour one’s dinner with the lightning speed of a Yankee tourist. The mistake made by all theatre managers is the earliness of the hour they appoint for the rising of the curtain. Eight o’clock! Good heavens!—that’s the usual London dinner time; and if one wants to get to the theatre punctually one must dine at six-thirty, which is ridiculous. Plays ought to commence at half-past nine and finish at half-past eleven; especially during the season. No man who loves his home comfort cares to gallop through the pleasantest meal of the day, and rush off to a theatre at eight o’clock; it’s hard work, and is seldom rewarded by any real pleasure. The “Empire” and other places of the same character get on so very well, partly because they leave us a certain choice of hours. La Marina, you see, doesn’t come on till ten.’
‘She is very beautiful, isn’t she?’ asked Delicia.
‘Oh, my dear!’ said Mrs Cavendish, laughing a little, ‘Beautiful is rather a strong expression! She’s a—well—! What would you call her, Robert?’ appealing to her husband.
‘I should call her a fine, fleshy woman,’ answered Mr Cavendish; ‘Coarsely built, certainly; and I should say she drank a good deal. She’ll get on all right enough while she’s young; but at middle-age she’ll be an appalling spectacle in the way of fat!’
He laughed, but Delicia scarcely heard his last words. She was lost in a wondering reverie. She could have easily understood a low-minded man becoming enamoured of an equally low-minded woman, but what puzzled her was to realise that her handsome and proudly-aristocratic husband should find anything attractive in a person who was ‘coarse’ and ‘drank a good deal.’ But now the musical prelude to the wonderful ‘Birth of a Butterfly’ began, and the low shivering of the violins responded to the melodious complaints of the deeper-toned ‘cellos, as the lights of the ‘Empire’ were darkened, and over the crowded audience the kindly veil of a semi-obscurity fell, hiding the play of mean and coarse emotions on many a degraded face, and completely shadowing the wicked devilry of eyes so bereft of honesty, that had hell itself needed fresh sparks to kindle flame, those ugly human glances might have served the purpose. The curtain rose, displaying an exquisitely-painted scene called the ‘Garden of Aurora,’ where, in the rosy radiance of a deftly-simulated ‘dawn of day,’ the green trees trembled to the murmur of the subdued orchestral music, and roses—admirable creations of calico and gauze—hung from the wings in gay clusters, looking almost as if they were real. In the middle of the stage, on a broad green leaf that glittered with a thousand sparkles of imitation dew, lay a large golden cocoon, perfect in shape and shining gloriously in the beams of the mimic sun, to this central object the gaze of everyone in the audience was drawn and fixed. The music now grew wilder and sharper, the violins began to scream, the ‘cellos to swear, and Sound itself, torn into shreds of impatient vibration, was beginning to protest discordantly at the whole representation, when lo!—the golden cocoon grew slowly more and more transparent, as if some invisible hand were winding off the silken treasure of the spinning, and the white form of a woman was dimly, delicately seen through the half-opaque covering. Loud murmurs of applause began, which swelled into a rapturous roar of ecstasy as with a sudden, sharp noise, which was echoed and repeated in the orchestra, the cocoon split asunder, and La Marina bounded forward to the footlights. Clad in diaphanous drapery, which scarcely concealed her form, and spreading forth two white butterfly wings, illumined in some mysterious way by electricity, she commenced her gliding dance—an intricate whirl of wonderful sinuous movements, every one of which might have served as a study for a sculptor. Her feet moved flyingly without sound; her face, artistically tinted for stage-effect, was beautiful; her hair of reddish-brown, lit weirdly by concealed electric dewdrops, flowed about her in a cloud that resembled a smouldering fire; and as she danced, she smiled as sweetly and with as perfect an imitation of childlike innocence as though she had in very truth been newly born in fairyland that night, just as she seemed,—a creature of light, love and mirth, with no idea at all of the brandy awaiting her by her own order in her dressing-room off the ‘wings.’ And Delicia, frozen into a kind of unnatural calm, watched her steadily, coldly, critically; and watching, realised that the Bond Street jeweller had not spoken without knowledge, for there, on Marina’s panting bosom, gleamed the diamond dove carrying the golden love-token, which said, ‘Je t’adore ma mie!’ Flashing brilliantly with every toss and whirl of the dancer’s pliant body, it was to Delicia the proof-positive of her husband’s dishonour. And yet she found it difficult to grasp the truth at once; she was not aware of any particular emotion of hurt, or rage, or grief; she only felt very cold and sick, and she could not put so strong a control on herself as to quite hide these physical sensations altogether, for Mrs Cavendish, glancing at her in alarm, exclaimed,—
‘Delicia, you are not well! Robert, she’s going to faint; take her out of the box! Give her some air!’
Delicia forced herself to smile—to speak.
‘It is nothing, I assure you,’ she said, ‘nothing but the heat and the smoke. Pray do not mind me; it will soon pass.’
But despite her words, she half rose and looked nervously about her as if seeking for some escape; then, refusing Mr Cavendish’s hastily-offered arm, she sat down again.
‘I will see this dance out,’ she said tremulously; ‘and then, perhaps, if you are ready, we will go.’
And she turned her eyes once more on the stage, which was now flooded with purple and golden light, causing La Marina, in her impersonation of a butterfly, to glow with all the brilliant and soft colours of the rainbow. Her white wings were irradiated with all sorts of wonderful tints—now crimson, now blue, now green—and in the midst of all the glitter and play of light shone Marina’s face, smiling with its sweetly simulated expression of innocence, while the diamond dove sparkled beneath her rounded chin. And as Delicia glanced from her to the arena to see the effect of the performance on the audience, she started, and in the extreme tension of her nerves almost screamed,—for there,—looking straight up at her, was her husband! Their eyes met; the crowded space of the auditorium and the brilliantly-lit stage, with the swaying figure of the popular dancer gliding to and fro upon it, severed them—the visible and outward signs of a wider separation to come. Lord Carlyon surveyed his wife with a lofty and offended air, and quickly understanding the expression on his features, Delicia could have laughed aloud, had she been less stunned and miserable. For he was assuming an aspect of injured virtue, which, considering the actual state of affairs, had something ludicrous about it; and for a moment Delicia studied him with a curiously calm and critical analysis, just as if he were a subject for literary treatment and no more. She saw, from his very look upward at her, that he considered her to have outraged the proprieties by visiting the ‘Empire’ at all, even though she was accompanied by two of her oldest and most familiar friends; and of his own guilt in connection with La Marina it was highly probable he never thought at all. Men are judged to be excellent logicians, superseding in that particular branch of knowledge all the feeble efforts of womankind; and undoubtedly they have a very peculiar form of arguing out excuses for their own vices, which must be acknowledged as exceedingly admirable. Before La Marina’s gyrations were over, and while the male part of the audience was exhausting itself in frantic salvos of applause, Delicia was moved by such a keen and pungent appreciation of the comedy side of the situation that she could not help smiling. There was a wide wound in her heart; but it was so deep and deadly that as yet the true anguish of it was not betrayed—the throbbing ache had not begun, and she herself was scarcely as yet aware of her own mortal hurt. The brilliancy of her brain saved her, for the time being, from knowing to what extent her tenderest and best emotions had been outraged; and she could not avoid perceiving something almost droll in the fact that she, Delicia, had worked, among other things, for this, to enable her husband to deck his mistress with jewels purchased out of her hard earnings!
‘It is very funny!’ she said half aloud, ‘and perhaps the funniest thing of all is that I should never have thought it of him!’
‘What did you say, Delicia?’ asked Mr Cavendish, bending down towards her.
Delicia smiled.
‘Nothing!’ she replied. ‘I was talking to myself, which is a bad habit. I saw Will just now; he’s in the arena somewhere. I expect he’s not best pleased to see me here.’
‘Well, he’s here himself often enough,’ retorted Mr Cavendish; ‘at least, if one is to believe what people say.’
‘Ah, but one must never believe what people say,’ answered Delicia, still smiling quite radiantly. ‘The majority of mankind tell more lies than truths; it suits their social customs and conveniences better. May we go now?’
‘Willingly,’ and the Cavendishes rose at once. ‘Shall we look for Lord Carlyon?’
‘Oh, no; there is such a crowd, we should never find him. He will probably go home in a hansom.’
They left the hall; and Delicia, who had placed her carriage at the service of her friends that night, took them back in it to their own door.
‘You haven’t told us what you think of La Marina,’ said Mrs Cavendish, smiling, when they were bidding each other good-night. ‘Were you disappointed in her?’
‘Not at all,’ Delicia answered tranquilly; ‘she is an admirable dancer. I never expected her to be anything more than that.’
‘Numbers of men have quite lost their heads about her,’ observed Mr Cavendish, as he stood on the pavement outside his house and looked in at Delicia, where she sat in her carriage shadowed from the light. ‘Somebody told me the other day she had more jewels than a queen.’
‘No doubt,’ responded Delicia, carelessly; ‘She is a toy, and the only chance she has of not being broken is to make herself expensive. Good-night!’
She waved her hand, and was driven off. Mr and Mrs Cavendish entered their own quiet house, and in the semi-lighted hall looked at each other questioningly.
‘It is no use dropping any more casual hints,’ said Mr Cavendish, almost crossly; ‘she doesn’t take them.’
‘I don’t think she’ll ever believe a word against Carlyon,’ responded his wife; ‘and old friends as we are, we should only offend her if we speak out and tell her all we hear. It is no use making mischief.’
‘It is no use speaking truth, you mean,’ observed Mr Cavendish. ‘What a singular thing it is that one can never be honest in society without offending somebody!’
Mrs Cavendish sighed and smiled. She had had her turn of social life long years ago, and had got thoroughly tired of its vapid folly and hypocrisy, but she had managed to find a good husband, and for that was daily and hourly thankful. The great sorrow of her life was that she had not been blessed with children, and it was partly this shadow, on her otherwise happy and tranquil lot, which made her attachment to Delicia peculiarly tender. Had that brilliant and popular novelist been her own daughter, she could not have loved her more, and there was an uneasy sense of foreboding in her good, motherly soul that night which kept her awake for a long time, thinking and wondering as to what would happen if certain rumours concerning Lord Carlyon turned out to be true. She knew Delicia’s character better than most people; she was aware that beneath that apparently pliant, sweet nature, there was a resolute spirit, strong as iron, firm as adamant—a spirit which would assuredly make for right and justice whenever and however tested and tried; but she could not foresee in what way Delicia would resent a wrong, supposing she had cause for such resentment. She looked slight as a reed and delicate as a lily; but appearances are deceptive; and nothing can well be more foolish than to estimate a person’s mental capacity by his or her outward bearing. A rapier is a thin, light weapon, but it can nevertheless kill; a nightingale has nothing to boast of in its plumage, but its singing surpasses that of all the other birds in creation. Only the purely barbaric mind judges things or individuals by surface appearances. Anyone who had attempted to fathom Delicia’s character by her looks would have formed a very erroneous estimate of her, for, to the casual observer, she was merely a pretty, lovable woman, with a sunny smile and a graceful bearing, and that was all. No one would have given her credit for such virtues as strong self-restraint, courage, determination, and absolute indifference to opinions; yet all these she had in no small degree, combined with an extraordinary directness and swiftness of action which is commendable enough when it distinguishes a man, but is somewhat astonishing when discovered in the naturally capricious composition of a woman. This direct method of conduct impelled her now; for while Mrs Cavendish lay awake worrying about her, she herself, on returning home that evening, had fully made up her mind as to what she meant to do. Going into her study, she sat down and wrote a letter to her husband, in which, with concise and uncomplaining brevity, she told him all. She concluded her epistle thus:—
‘I am unable to tell you my own feelings on this matter, as I have not yet had time to realise them even to myself. The surprise is too sudden—the disappointment I experience in you too keen. I am quite aware that many men keep stage-artistes for their own amusement in hours of leisure, but I do not think they are accustomed to do so on their wives’ earnings. It would be inexpressibly painful to me to have to talk this over with you; it is a subject I could not possibly discuss. I therefore deem it best to leave you for a few days in order that we may both, apart from one another, have leisure in which to consider our positions and arrange what is best to do for the future. In order to save all unnecessary gossip and scandal, I shall return to town in time for Lady Dexter’s “crush,” to which we are both especially invited. I am going to Broadstairs, and will telegraph my address on arrival.
‘DELICIA VAUGHAN.’
When she had written all she had to say, she placed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and, calling Robson, bade him deliver it to his master directly he returned. Robson glanced at her deferentially, wondering within himself at the extreme pallor of her face and feverish brightness of her eyes.
‘His lordship said he would probably not return to-night,’ he ventured to observe.
Delicia started slightly, but quickly controlled herself.
‘Did he? Well, whenever he does return, give him that letter.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
He withdrew, and Delicia went quietly upstairs to her bedroom and summoned her maid.
‘I am going down to the sea for a few days, Emily,’ she said; ‘to Broadstairs. Just put my things together, and be ready yourself by ten o’clock to-morrow morning.’
Emily, a bright-looking young woman, who had none of the airs and graces about her which are too frequently assumed by ladies’ maids, and who, moreover, had the further recommendation of being devotedly attached to her mistress, received her instructions with her usual pleased readiness, and set about loosening her lady’s hair for the night. As she unwound the glistening mass and let it fall, Delicia suddenly started up with a smothered cry of pain.
‘Oh, my lady, what is it?’ exclaimed Emily, startled.
Delicia stood trembling and looking at her.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ she faltered at last, faintly forcing a smile. ‘I have just found out something, that is all—something I did not quite understand before. I understand it now—I understand—my God, I understand! There, Emily, don’t look so frightened. I am not ill; I am only a little tired and puzzled. You can go now; I would rather be alone. Be sure you call me in good time for the train, and have everything packed in readiness. I shall take Spartan with me.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ stammered Emily, still looking a trifle scared. ‘Are you sure you are not ill? Can’t I do anything for you?’
‘No, nothing,’ answered Delicia, gently. ‘Go to bed, Emily, and get up early, that’s all. Good-night!’
‘Good-night, my lady!’ and Emily reluctantly retired.
Left alone, Delicia moved to the door and locked it. Then, turning, she drew aside the curtain which hung before the niche she called her ‘oratory,’ where an ivory crucifix hung white against draperies of purple. The anguished eyes of the suffering Saviour looked down upon her; the thorn-crowned head drooped as it were towards her; the ‘Man of Sorrows acquainted with grief,’ with arms outstretched upon the cross, seemed waiting to receive her,—and with a sudden, sobbing cry she fell on her knees.
‘Oh, my God, my God.’ she wailed, ‘I know now what I have lost! All my love and all my joy! Gone, gone like a foolish dream,—gone for ever! Gone, and nothing left but the crown of thorns called Fame!’
Shuddering, she hid her face on the cushion of her prie-dieu and wept slow, passionate tears, that rose from a breaking heart and scalded her eyelids as they fell. Veiled in the golden glory of her hair, she fretted like a little ailing child, till finally, exhausted and shivering with emotion, she lifted her head and looked straight at the sculptured Christ that faced her.
‘I have loved him too much,’ she said half aloud. ‘I have made him the idol of my life, and I am punished for my sin. We are all apt to forget the thunders of Mount Sinai and the great Voice which said, “Thou shalt have none other gods save Me.” I had forgotten,—nay, I was almost willing to forget! I made of my beloved a god; he has made of me—a convenience!’
She rose, flung back her hair over her shoulders, and standing still for a moment listened. There was not a sound in the house, save an occasional uneasy movement from Spartan, who was lying on his mat outside her bedroom door.
‘“My lord’s” sense of what is right and proper for women has been outraged to-night by seeing me at the “Empire,” she said, with a little disdainful smile; ‘but his notions of morality do not go far enough to prevent him from being with La Marina at this very moment!’
A look of disgust passed over her mobile features.
‘Poor Love! Poor little, delicate moth! How soon a coarse touch will kill it—kill it hopelessly, so that it will never rise again! It is the only passion I think we possess that once dead, can never be resuscitated. Ambition is perennial, but Love!—it is the aloe flower that blossoms but once in a hundred years. I wonder what I shall do with my life now,—now that it is crippled and paralysed?’
She walked slowly to her mirror and looked long and earnestly at her own reflection.
‘You poor little woman!’ she said pityingly, ‘What a mistake you have made of it! You fancied that out of all the world of men you had won for yourself a hero,—a man whose nature was noble, whose disposition was chivalrous, whose tenderness and truth were never to be doubted! A protector and defender who, had anyone presumed to slander you, would have struck the liar across the mouth and made him answer for his insolence. Instead of this wonderful Marc Antony or Theseus of your imagination, what have you got? Don’t be afraid, poor Delicia! I see your mouth trembling and your eyes filling with foolish tears—now that’s all nonsense, you know! You must not shrink from the truth, my dear; and if God has chosen to take up your beautiful idol and break it in your sight, you must not begin to argue about it, or try to pick up the pieces and tell God He is wrong. Courage, Delicia! Face it out! What did you think you had won for a sure certainty out of all the flitting pageant of this world’s illusions? A true heart,—a faithful lover,—and, as before said, a kind of Theseus in looks and bravery! But even Theseus deserted Ariadne, and in this case your hero has deserted you. Only what you have to realise, you deluded creature, is this—that he is not a hero at all—that he never was a hero! That is the hardest part, isn’t it? To think that the god you have worshipped is no more than an “officer and gentleman,” as a great many “officers and gentlemen” go, who lives comfortably on your earnings, and spends the surplus money on the race-course, music-halls and—La Marina! Put off your rose-coloured spectacles, my dear, and look at him as he is. Don’t be a little coward about it! Yes, I know what you are saying over and over again in your own heart; it is the old story, “I loved him, oh, I loved him!” like the burden of a sentimental song. Of course you loved him—-how deeply,—how passionately,—how dearly,—you will never, never be able to express, even to yourself.’
Here, in spite of her remonstrances to her own image in the glass, the tears brimmed over and fell.
‘There, of course I suppose you must cry a little; you can’t help it,—you have been so thoroughly deceived, and the disillusion is so complete, you poor, poor little woman!’
And, moved by a quaint compassion for herself, she leant forward and kissed the reflection of her own quivering lips in the mirror.
‘It’s no good your looking about anywhere for consolation,’ she went on, wiping away her tears. ‘You are not made after the fashion of the modern lady, who can love anywhere and everywhere, so large is her heart; you are of that dreadfully old-world type of person, who, loving once, can never love again. Your love is killed in you; you are only half yourself now, and you must make the best of it. You must cut down your sentiments, smother your emotions, and live like St John in the wilderness, on ‘locusts and wild honey,’ by which you will for the future understand the rewards of Fame. And you will be in a desert all by yourself, fasting—fasting day and night—for the food of tenderness and love which you will never, never get—remember that! It’s rather a hard lot, you poor, weeping, weak little woman! But it’s marked out for you, and you will have to bear it!’
She smiled a pained, difficult smile, and she watched her own reflection smile back at her in the same sad way. Glancing at a time-piece on her dressing-table, she saw it was nearly two in the morning. Her husband had not returned. Twisting up her hair in a loose knot, she lay down on the bed and tried to sleep, but only succeeded in falling into an uneasy doze for about an hour. Ill and restless as she felt, however, she was up and dressed when her maid came to her in the morning, and before eleven o’clock she had left the house, with Spartan sitting beside her on the floor of the brougham which took her to the station, from whence she started for Broadstairs. She left no instructions with her household, beyond impressing once again upon Robson the urgent necessity of giving Lord Carlyon the letter she had written for him as soon as he returned. Robson promised implicit obedience, and watched the disappearance of the carriage containing his lady, her maid and her dog, with feelings of mingled curiosity and uneasiness.
‘Something’s in the wind, I’m pretty sure,’ he mused; ‘she has never gone away in this way, sudden-like, before. Very quiet, too, she looks, and very pale. She wouldn’t be the one to make a fuss about anything, but she’d feel all the more. I wonder if she knows?’
He stopped abruptly in the middle of the hall, evidently struck by this idea, and repeated the words to himself slowly and reflectively—‘I wonder if she knows?’