‘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 anguis
h 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.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 403