Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  And she did stay at home very contentedly; and when he was absent with a party of his own particular ‘friends,’ dispensing to them the elegant luncheon and champagne which her work had paid for, she was either busy with some fresh piece of literary labour, or else taking her sweet presence into the houses of the poor and suffering, and bringing relief, hope and cheerfulness, wherever she went. And on the morning when the sunshine placed a crown on her head, and hurled a javelin of light full in the cold eyes of the marble Antinous, she was in one of her brightest, most radiant moods, satisfied with her lot, grateful for the blessings which she considered were so numerous, and as unconscious as ever that there was anything upside down in the arrangement which had resulted in her being obliged to ‘love, honour, obey,’ keep, and clothe, six feet of beautiful man, by her own unassisted toil, while the said six feet of beautiful man did nothing but enjoy himself.

  The quaint ‘Empire’ clock, shaped as a world, with a little god of love pointing to the hours numbered on its surface, chimed two from its golden bracket on the wall before she laid down her pen for the day. Then, rising, she stretched her fair, rounded arms above her head, and smiled at the daffodils in the vase close by — bright flowers which seemed fully conscious of the sunshine in that smile. Anon, she moved into the deep embrasure of her wide lattice window, where, stretched out at full length, lay a huge dog of the St Bernard breed, winking lazily with one honest brown eye at the sunbeams that danced about him.

  ‘Oh, Spartan, you lazy fellow!’ she said, putting her small foot on his rough, brown body, ‘aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’

  Spartan sighed, and considered the question for a moment, then raised his noble head and kissed the point of his mistress’s broidered shoe.

  ‘It’s lunch-time, Spartan,’ continued Delicia, stooping down to pat him tenderly. ‘Will master be home to luncheon, or not, Spartan? I’m afraid not, old boy. What do you think about it?’

  This inquiry roused Spartan to an attitude of attention. He got up, sat on his big haunches, and yawned profoundly; then he appeared to meditate, conveying into his fine physiognomy an expression of deep calculation that was almost human.

  ‘No, Spartan,’ went on Delicia, dropping on one knee and putting her arm round him, ‘we mustn’t expect it. We generally lunch alone, and we’ll go and get what the gods have provided for us in the dining-room, at once — shall we?’

  But Spartan suddenly pricked his long ears, and rose in all his lion-like majesty, erect on his four handsome legs; then he gave one deep bark, turning his eyes deferentially on his mistress as one who should say, ‘Excuse me, but I hear something which compels my attention.’

  Delicia, her hand on the dog’s neck, listened intently; her breath came and went, then she smiled, and a lovely light irradiated her face as the velvet portière of her study door was hastily pushed aside, and her husband, looking the very incarnation of manly beauty in his becoming riding-gear, entered abruptly.

  ‘Why, Will, how delightful!’ she exclaimed, advancing to meet him, ‘you hardly ever come home to lunch. This is a treat!’

  She clung to him and kissed him. He held her round the waist a moment, gazing at her with the involuntary admiration her grace and intelligence always roused in him, and thinking for the hundredth time how curious it was that she should be so entirely different to other women. Then, releasing her, he drew off his gloves, threw them down, and glanced at the papers which strewed her writing-table.

  ‘Finished the book?’ he queried, with a smile.

  ‘Yes, all but the last few sentences,’ she replied. ‘They require careful thinking out. It doesn’t do to end with a platitude.’

  ‘Most books end so,’ he said carelessly. ‘But yours are always exceptions to the rule. People are never tired of asking me how you do it. One fellow to-day said he was sure I helped you to write the strong parts.’

  Delicia smiled a little.

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Why, of course I said I didn’t — couldn’t write a line to save my life!’ he responded, with a laugh. ‘But you know what men are! They never can bring themselves to believe in the reality of a woman’s genius.’

  The musing smile still lingered on Delicia’s face.

  ‘Genius is a big thing,’ she said. ‘I do not assume to possess it. But it is curious to see how very many quite ungifted men announce their own claims to it, while indignantly denying all possibility of its endowment to women. However, one must have patience; it will take some time to break men of their old savagery. For centuries they treated women as slaves and cattle; it may take other centuries before they learn to treat them as their equals.’

  Carlyon looked at her, half-wonderingly, half-doubtfully.

  ‘They won’t give them full academic honours yet,’ he said, ‘which I think is disgracefully unfair. And the Government won’t give them titles of honour in their own right for their services in Science, Art or Literature, which they ought to have, in my opinion. And this brings me round to the news which sent me galloping home to-day as soon as I heard it. Delicia, I can give you a title this morning!’

  She raised her eyebrows a little.

  ‘Are you joking, Will?’

  ‘Not a bit of it. You’ve heard me speak of my brother Guy, Lord Carlyon?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, when my father died a bankrupt, of course Guy had what he could get out of the general wreck, which was very little, together with the title. The title was no use to him, he having no means to keep it up. He went off to Africa, gold-hunting, under an assumed name, to try and make money out there — and — and now he’s dead of fever. I can’t pretend to be very sorry, for I never saw much of him after we left school, and he was my senior by five years. Anyhow, he’s gone — and so — in fact — I’m Lord Carlyon!’

  He made such a whimsical attempt to appear indifferent to the honour of being a lord, while all the time it was evident he was swelling with the importance of it, that Delicia laughed outright, and her violet eyes flashed with fun as she dropped him a demure curtsey.

  ‘My lord, allow me to congratulate your lordship!’ she said. ‘By my halidame, good my lord, I am your lordship’s very humble servant!’

  He looked a trifle vexed.

  ‘Don’t be nonsensical, Delicia!’ he urged. ‘You know I never expected it. I always thought Guy would have married. If he had, and a son had been born to him, of course that son would have had the title. But he remained a bachelor to the end of his days, and so the luck has fallen to me. Aren’t you rather pleased about it? It’s a nice thing for you, at anyrate.’

  Delicia gave him a bright glance of humorous surprise.

  ‘A nice thing for me? My dear boy, do you really think so? Do you really and truly imagine I care about a title tacked on to my name? Not a bit of it! It will only attract a few extra snobs round me at parties, that’s all. And to my public I am always Delicia Vaughan; they won’t even give me the benefit of your name, Will, because somehow they prefer the one by which they knew and loved me first.’

  A faint suggestion of the Beautiful Sullenness manner clouded Carlyon’s face.

  ‘Oh, of course, you swear by your public!’ he said, a trifle crossly. ‘But whatever you may think of it, I’m glad the title has come my way. It’s a good thing — it gives me a status.’

  She was silent, and stood quietly beside him, stroking Spartan’s head. Not a thought of the status she herself gave her husband by her world-wide fame crossed her mind, and the reproach that might have leaped to the lips of a less loving woman than she was — namely, that the position she had won by her own brilliant intellect far outweighed any trumpery title of heritage — never once occurred to her brain. But all the same, something in the composed grace of her attitude conveyed the impression of that fact to Carlyon silently, and with subtle force; for he was conscious of a sudden sense of smallness and inward shame.

  ‘Yet after all,’ she said presently, with a playfu
l air, ‘it isn’t as if you were a brewer, you know! So many brewers and building contractors become lords nowadays, that somehow I always connect the peerage with Beer and Bricks. I suppose it’s very wrong, but I can’t help it. And it will seem odd to me at first to associate you with the two B’s — you are so different to the usual type.’

  He smiled, — well pleased to see her eyes resting upon him with the tender admiration to which he had become accustomed.

  ‘Is luncheon ready?’ he asked, after a brief pause, during which he was satisfied that he looked his best and that she was fully aware of it.

  ‘Yes; let us go down and partake thereof,’ she answered gaily. ‘Will you tell the servants, or shall I?’

  ‘Tell the servants what?’ he demanded, with a slight frown.

  She turned her pretty head over her shoulder laughingly.

  ‘Why, to call you for the future “My Lord,” or “m’lud.” Which shall it be?’

  She looked charmingly provocative; his momentary ill-humour passed, and he flung an arm round her waist and kissed her.

  ‘Whichever you please,’ he said. ‘Anyway you are, as you always have been, “my” lady!’

  CHAPTER II

  Delicia was perfectly right when she said that her new distinction would draw ‘extra snobs’ around her. A handle to one’s name invariably attracts all the social ‘runaways,’ — in the same fashion that mischievous street-boys are attracted to bang at a particularly ornate and glittering door-knocker and then scamper off in hiding before any servant has time to answer the false summons. People who are of old and good family themselves think nothing of titles, but those who have neither good birth, breeding nor education, attach a vast amount of importance to these placards of rank, and can never refrain from an awe-stricken expression of countenance when introduced to a duke, or with-hold the regulation ‘royalty-dip’ when in the presence of some foreign ‘princess,’ who, as a matter of fact, has no right to ‘royalty’ honours at all. Delicia had met a great many such small dignitaries, but she never curtsied to any of them, whereat their petty vanity was wounded, and they thought, ‘These authors have bad manners.’ She read their thoughts and smiled, but did not care. She reserved her salutations for Royalty itself, not for the imitation of it. And now that she was a ‘ladyship,’ she obtained a good deal of amusement out of the study of character among her various ‘friends’ who envied and grudged her the trumpery honour. The Tookseys and Snookseys of society could scarcely contain themselves for spite when they learned that for the future they would have to speak of the ‘female authoress’ as Lady Carlyon. The Casual Caller and the One Man began to allude to her as ‘Delicia, Lady Carlyon,’ rolling the sweet, quaint name of ‘Delicia’ on their tongues with a keener sense of enjoyment than usual in its delicate flavour, thereby driving the Tookseys and Snookseys into a more feverish condition then ever. Paul Valdis heard the news suddenly, when he was dressing for his part as Ernani, on an evening when Royalty had announced its ‘gracious’ intention of being present to see him do it. And there would appear to have been something not altogether incorrect in the rumour that he was ‘madly in love’ with Delicia, for he turned very white and lost command of his usual equable temper in an altercation with his ‘dresser,’ whom he dismissed abruptly with something like an oath.

  ‘“Lady” Carlyon!’ he said to himself, staring at his own classic face and brilliant, dark eyes in the little mirror which dominated his ‘make-up’ table. ‘And I no more than mime! — stage-puppet and plaything of the public! Wait, though! I am something more! I am a MAN! — in heart and soul and feeling! a man, which my “Lord” Carlyon is not!’

  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 firs
t 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.’