Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  She paused, breathing quickly.

  ‘I didn’t say you were “unsexed,” he stammered awkwardly. ‘I said clever women were, as a rule, unsexed.’

  ‘Pardon me,’ she interrupted him coldly. ‘You said “women who write books, like my wife.” Those were your exact words. And, I repeat, what have I done to deserve them? Have I ever dishonoured your name? Have you not been the one thought, the one pride, the one love of my life? Has not every beat of my heart, together with every stroke of my pen, been for you and you only? While all the time to me you have played traitor — your very looks have been lies, you have deceived and destroyed all my most sacred beliefs and hopes; you have murdered me as thoroughly as if you had thrust a knife through my heart and hurled me down dead at your feet!’

  Her voice vibrated with passion — strong, deeply-felt passion, unshaken by the weakness of sobs or tears.

  He made a step towards her.

  ‘Look here, Delicia,’ he said, ‘don’t let us have a scene! I have been a fool, I daresay — I am quite willing to admit it — but can’t you forget and forgive?’ And undeterred by the chill aversion in her face, he held out his arms. ‘Come, I am sure your own heart cannot tell you to be unkind to me! You do love me—’

  ‘Love you!’ she cried, recoiling from him; ‘I hate you! Your very presence is hideous to my sight; and just as I once thought you the noblest of men, so I think you now the lowest, the meanest! You have been a fool, you say; oh, if you were only that! Only a fool! There are so many of them! Some of them such good fellows, too, in their folly. Fools there are in plenty who, nevertheless, do manage to preserve some cleanliness in their lives; who would not wrong a woman or insult her for the world — fools whom, mayhap, it might be good to love and to work for, and who at any rate are not cads or cowards!’

  He started, and the colour leapt to his face in a shamed red, then died away, leaving him very pale.

  ‘Oh, if you are going to rant and scream—’ he began.

  She turned upon him with a regal air.

  ‘Lord Carlyon, to rant and scream is not my métier,’ she said. ‘I leave that to the poor “Marina,” when you have dosed her with too much champagne. There is no need to go over the cause of our present conflict; what I have to say can be said in very few words. Your “unsexed” wife, who has had the honour of maintaining you ever since your union with her, by the ungrudging labour of her brain and hand, has sufficient sense of justice and self-respect to continue no longer in that eminently unpractical mode of action. We must for the future live apart; for I cannot consent to share your attentions with one stage artiste or any number of stage artistes. I do not choose to pay for their jewels; and your generous offer to settle Lady Brancewith’s bills for her does not meet with my consent or approval.

  Her face grew colder and more contemptuous as she continued, —

  ‘Your estimate of what is called a “clever” woman is as low as that of most men. I do not especially blame you for being like the rest of your sex in that one particular. Women who will not become as dirt under a man’s foot, to be trodden on first, then kicked aside, are generally termed “unsexed,” because they will not lower themselves to the man’s brute level. Nothing is more unnatural from a man’s point of view than that a woman should have brains, — and with those brains make money and position often superior to his, and at any rate manage to be independent of him. What men prefer is that their wives should be the slaves of their humour, and receive a five-pound note with deep thankfulness whenever they can get it, shutting their eyes to the fact that people like “Marina” get twenty pounds to their five from the same quarter. But you, — you have had nothing to complain of in the way of a pecuniary position, though I, as bread-winner, might readily have comported myself after approved masculine examples and given you five pounds where I spent twenty on myself and my own pleasure. But I did nothing of this sort; on the contrary, I have trusted you with half of everything I earned, believing you to be honest; believing that, of all men in the world, you would never cheat, defraud, or otherwise deceive me. And not only have you made a mock of me in society, but you have even helped to vilify my name. For it was distinctly your business to chastise the writer of that lying paragraph in the paper; but you left me to be defended by one who shares with me the drawback of being a “public character,” and with whom I have no connection whatever beyond that of friendship, as you perfectly well know. Why, I have heard of men, well-born, too, and of considerable social attainment, who have been willing enough to fight for the so-called “honour” of an admitted demi-mondaine; but for an honest woman and faithful wife, who is there in these days that will stir a finger to defend her from slander! Very few; least of all her husband! To such a height has nineteenth-century morality risen! I, who have been true to you in every thought, word and deed, am rewarded by your open infidelity, and for my work, which has at any rate kept you in ease and comfort, I am called “unsexed,” despite my pains! If I chose, I could fling you back your insult; for a man who lives on a woman’s earnings is more “unsexed” than the woman who earns. I never thought of this before; my love was too blind, too passionate. Now I do think of it; and thinking, I wonder at myself and you!’

  He dropped lazily into a chair and looked at her.

  ‘I suppose your temper will be over presently,’ he said, ‘and you will see things in a more reasonable light. You must remember I have given you a great position, Delicia; I think our marriage has been one of perfect mutual benefit. “Literary” women hardly ever get a chance of marrying at all, you know; men are afraid of them — won’t marry them on any account; — would rather have a barmaid, really — and when a “literary” woman gets into the aristocracy and all that — well, by Jove! — it’s a splendid thing for her, you know, and gives her a great lift! As for being unfaithful to you, why, there is not a man in my “set” who is absolutely immaculate; I am no worse than any of them — in fact, I am much better. You read so much, and you write so much, that you ought to know these things without my telling them to you. “Give and take” is the only possible rule in marriage, and I really thought you would have good sense enough to admit it—’

  Delicia regarded him with a chill smile.

  ‘I think I have admitted it!’ she said ironically. ‘Fully and freely! For I have given everything; equally you have taken everything! That is plain enough. And now you insult me afresh by the suggestion that it was really a condescension on your part to marry me at all, I being “literary”! If I had been a music-hall dancer, of course you would have been much prouder of me; it would have been something indeed worth boasting of, to say your wife had originally been famous for a break-down or can-can at the “Empire!” But because I follow, with what force and ability I can, the steps of the truly great, who have helped to mould the thoughts and feelings of men and nations, it is quite extraordinary I should have found a husband at all! Wonderful! And you have given me a great position, you assert. I confess I fail to perceive it! If you consider your title something of value, I am sorry for you; to me it is a nothing. In the old days of chivalry titles meant honour; now they have become, for the most part, the mere results of wealth and back-stair influence. Yours is an old title, I grant you that; but what does it matter? The latest brewer raised to the peerage puts himself on an equality with you, whether you like it or not. But between me — untitled Delicia Vaughan — and the self-same peer of the ale-cask, there is a great gulf fixed; and not all his wealth can put him on an equality with me, or with any author who has once won the love of nations. And so, Lord Carlyon, permit me to return your title, for I shall not wear it. When we separate I shall keep to my own name simply; thus I shall owe you nothing, not even prestige!’

  Carlyon suddenly lifted his fine eyes and flashed them effectively at her.

  ‘You are talking nonsense, Delicia,’ he said impatiently. ‘You know you don’t really mean that we are to separate. Why,’ this with the most naïve conceit, ‘what will y
ou do without me?’

  She met his gaze without the least emotion.

  ‘I shall continue to live, I suppose,’ she replied, ‘or I shall die, one of the two. It really doesn’t matter which.’

  There was a slight tremor in her voice, and emboldened by it he sprang up and tried to put his arm round her. She recoiled from him swiftly, thrusting him back.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ she cried wildly. ‘Don’t dare to come near me! I cannot answer for myself if you do; this shall defend me from you if necessary!’

  And almost before he could realise it she had snatched a small, silver-mounted pistol from its case on a shelf hard by, and, holding it in her hand, she stood as it were at bay.

  He gave a short, embarrassed laugh.

  ‘You have gone mad, Delicia!’ he said. ‘Put down that thing. It isn’t loaded, of course; but it doesn’t look pretty to see you with it.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t look pretty,’ she responded slowly. ‘But it is loaded! I took care of that before you came in! I don’t want to injure either you or myself; but I swear to you that if you come closer to me by one step, presume to offer me such an insult as your caress would be to me now, I will kill you!’

  Her white figure was firm as that of some menacing fate carved in marble; her pale face, with the violet eyes set in it like flashing stars, had a marvellous power and passion imprinted on its every line, and despite himself he fell back startled and in a manner appalled.

  ‘I have gone mad, you think?’ she went on. ‘If I had, would it be wonderful? To have one’s dearest hopes ruined, one’s heart broken, one’s life made waste — is that not something of a cause for madness? But I am not mad; I am simply resolved that your lips, which have bestowed their kisses on “la Marina,” shall never touch mine again; that your arms, which have embraced her, shall never embrace me, and that, come what will, I will keep my self-respect if I die for it! Now you know my mind, you will go your way; I mine. I cannot divorce you; for though you have murdered my very soul in me, brutally and pitilessly, you have not been “cruel” according to legal opinion. But I can separate from you — thank God for that! I cannot marry again. Heaven forbid that I should ever desire to do so! Neither can you; but you will not wish for that unless you meet with an American heiress with several millions, which you may have the chance of doing when I am dead — someone who has inherited her money and has not worked for it as I have, — honestly, — thereby becoming “unsexed!”’

  He stood silent for a minute.

  ‘You actually mean to say you want a judicial separation?’ he inquired at last, sullenly.

  She bent her head in the affirmative.

  ‘Well, you can get that, of course. But I must say, Delicia, of all the ungrateful, heartless women, you are the very worst! I should never have thought it of you! I imagined you had such a noble nature! So sweet and loving and forgiving! Good heavens! After all, what have I done? Just had a bit of fun with a dancing girl! Quite a common amusement with men of my class!

  ‘I have no doubt of it,’ she answered; ‘Very common! All the same, I do not choose to either tolerate it or pay for it. Ungrateful, heartless “unsexed”! This is my character, according to your estimate of me. I thank you! Poor Love’s last breath went in that final blow from the rough fist of ingratitude! I will not detain you any longer; in truth, you need not have stayed so long. I merely wished to let you know my decision. I had no intention to either upbraid you or condemn. Reproaches or complaints, however just, could leave no impression on a temperament like yours. I will see my lawyers to-morrow, and in a very short space of time you will be free of my company for ever. Shall we say good-bye now?’

  She raised her eyes, — her gold hair shone about her like an aureole, and a sudden sweetness softened her face, though its gravity was unchanged. A sharp pang of remorse and sorrow stabbed him through and through, and he looked at her in mingled abasement and yearning.

  ‘Delicia — must we part?’

  He whispered the question, half in hope half in fear.

  She regarded him steadily.

  ‘Dare you ask it? Can you imagine I could love you again after what has passed? Some women might do so — I could not.’

  He stood irresolute; there was a mean and selfish trouble at his heart to which he could not give utterance for very shame’s sake. He was really wondering what arrangements she meant to make for his future, but some few of the better instincts of manhood rose up within him protestingly, and bade him hold his peace. Still the brooding egotistical thought lingered in him and made him angry; he grew more and more wrathful as he realised that she, — this woman, whose whole life and devotion he had had so recently in his keeping, — had suddenly fathomed his true nature and cast him from her as something contemptible, and that she — she had the power to maintain herself free of him in wealth and ease, whilst he, if she were at all malevolently inclined, would have to return to the state of semi-poverty and ‘living on tick,’ which had been his daily and yearly lot before he met her. Inwardly he cursed ‘la Marina,’ Lily Brancewith and everybody, except himself. He never thought of including his own vices in the general big ‘Damn!’ he was mentally uttering. And as he hesitated, shuffling one foot against the other, a prey to the most disagreeable reflections, Delicia advanced a step and held out her hands.

  ‘Good-bye, Will! I loved you once very deeply; a few days ago you were everything to me, and for the sake of that love, which has so suddenly perished and is dead for ever, let us part in peace!’

  But he turned from her roughly.

  ‘Oh, it is all very well for you!’ he said. ‘You can afford to talk all this high-falutin’ rubbish, and give yourself airs and graces, but I am a poor devil of a fellow always getting into a hole; and it isn’t to be supposed that I am going to take my dismissal in this way, just as if I were a lackey. I am your husband, you know; you can’t undo that!’

  ‘Not at present,’ said Delicia, drawing back from him quickly, the tenderness passing from her face and leaving it coldly disdainful. ‘But it is very possible the Gordian knot of marriage may be cut for me sooner or later. Death may befriend me in this matter, if nothing else will.’

  ‘Death! Nonsense! I am not likely to die, nor are you. And I don’t see what you want to get a separation for. I will go away for a time if you like. I will make any promises you want me to make; but why you should bring a lawyer into it, I cannot imagine. The fact is, you are making a fuss about nothing, and I am not going to say good-bye at all. I will take a trip abroad, and by the time I come back I daresay all this will have blown over and you will be glad to see me.’

  She said nothing, but simply turned from him, and sitting quietly down at her desk resumed the letter she had been writing when he entered.

  ‘Do you hear me?’ he repeated querulously. ‘I sha’n’t say good-bye.’

  She did not speak; her pen moved swiftly over the paper before her, but otherwise she never moved.

  ‘I am sure it is no wonder,’ he continued crossly, ‘that the Government protests against too much independence being allowed to women! What tyrants they would all become if they could have everything their own way as much as you can! Women ought to be gentle and submissive; and if they are fortunate enough to be wealthy, they ought to use their wealth for their husbands’ benefit. That is the natural order of creation — woman was made to be subservient to man, and when she is not, things always go wrong.’

  Still Delicia wrote on without uttering a word.

  He paused a moment, then observed, —

  ‘Well, I’m quite worn out with all this rumpus! I shall go to bed. Good-night, Delicia!’

  At this she turned and looked at him fully.

  ‘Good-night!’ she said.

  Something in the transparent beauty of her face and the dark tragedy of her eyes awed him. She looked as if during the past few minutes she had risen above and beyond him to a purer atmosphere than that of earth. The majority of men hate women who lo
ok so; and Carlyon was painfully conscious that he had suddenly grown to hate Delicia. She had entirely changed, he thought. From a loving, tender idolater of his manly graces and perfections, she had become a proud, cynical, fault-finding, unforgiving ‘virago.’ This latter term did not suit her at all, but he considered that it did; for, as usual, by the aid of man’s logic, he deemed himself the injured party and she the injuring. And irritated beyond measure at the queenly tranquillity of her demeanour, he muttered something profane under his breath, and dashing aside the portière with a clatter of its brazen rings and a violence that threatened to tear its very substance, he left the room.

  As soon as he had gone, Delicia moved slowly to the door and shut and locked it after him; then as slowly returned to her chair, where, leaning her head back against the carved escutcheon, she quietly fainted.

  CHAPTER XII

  Next day Delicia was too weak and broken in body and spirit to leave her bedroom, which she had managed to reach by herself on recovering from her swoon. Her husband sent her a brief note of farewell by one of the servants. He was leaving London immediately for Paris, he said, ‘and when all this nonsense had blown over,’ he would return. Till then he was ‘hers affectionately.’ She crumpled the note in her hand and lay still, her fair head fallen wearily back among her pillows, and a great sense of exhaustion and fatigue numbing all her faculties. A batch of letters came by the mid-day post, letters from strangers and friends, all warmly testifying as usual to her genius; and as she read she sighed heavily and wondered what was the use of it all?