Chapter II: Part 2

All this had happened three years ago, yet Delicia, writing peacefully as usual in the quiet seclusion of her study, remembered every incident of her wedding as though it were only yesterday. Happiness had made the time fly on swift wings, and her dream of love had as yet lost nothing of its heavenly glamour. Her marriage had caused no very perceptible change in her fortunes—she worked a little harder and more incessantly, that was all. Her husband deserved all the luxuries and enjoyments of life that she could give him—so she considered—and she was determined he should never have to complain of her lack of energy. Her fame steadily increased—she was at the very head and front of her profession—people came from far and near to have the privilege of seeing her and speaking with her, if only for a few minutes. But popular admiration was nothing to her, and she attached no importance whatever to the daily tributes she received, from all parts of the world, testifying to her genius and the influence her writings had upon the minds of thousands. Such things passed her by as the merest idle wind of rumour, and all her interests were concentrated on her work—first, for the work’s own sake, and next, that she might be a continual glory and exhaustless gold mine to her husband.

Certainly Carlyon had nothing to desire or to complain of in his destiny. A crowned king might have envied him; unweighted with care, no debts, no difficulties, a perpetual balance at his banker’s, a luxurious home, arranged not only with all the skill that wealth can command, but also with the artistic taste that only brains can supply; a lovely wife whose brilliant endowments were the talk of two continents, and last, but not least, the complete unfettered enjoyment of his own way and will. Delicia never played the domestic tyrant over him; he was free to do as he liked, go where he would and see whom he chose. She never catechised him as to the nature of his occupations or amusements, and he, on his part, was wise enough to draw a line between a certain ‘fast set’ he personally favoured, and the kind of people he introduced to her, knowing well enough that were he to commit the folly of bringing some ‘shady’ character within his wife’s circle of acquaintance, it would be only once that the presence of such a person would be tolerated by her. For she had very quick perceptions; and though her disposition was gentleness itself, she was firmly planted in rectitude, and managed to withdraw herself so quietly and cleverly from any contact with social swindlers and vulgar _nouveaux riches_, that they never had the ghost of a chance to gain the smallest footing with her. Unable to obtain admittance to her house, they took refuge in scandal, and invented lies and slanders concerning her, all of which fell flat owing to her frankly open life of domestic peace and contentment. Sneers and false rumours were inserted about her in the journals; she ignored them, and quietly lived them down, till finally the worst thing anyone could find to say of her was that she was ‘idiotically in love’ with her own husband.

‘She’s a perfect fool about him!’ exclaimed the Tookseys and Snookseys, angrily. ‘Everybody knows Paul Valdis is madly in love with her. It’s only she who never seems to see it!’ ‘Perhaps she does not approve of the French fashion of having a lover as well as a husband,’ suggested a Casual Caller of the male sex. ‘Though it is now _la mode_ in England, she may not like it. Besides, Paul Valdis has been “madly in love,” as you call it, a great many times!’

The Tookseys and Snookseys sighed, shivered, rolled up their eyes and shrugged their shoulders. They were old and ugly and yellow of skin; but their hearts had a few lively pulsations of evil left in them still, and they envied and marvelled at the luck of a woman—a literary female, too, good heavens! to think of it!—who not only had the handsomest man in town for a husband, but who could also have the next handsomest—Paul Valdis, the great actor—for a lover, if she but ‘dropped the handkerchief.’

And while ‘society’ thus talked, Delicia worked, coining money for her husband to spend as he listed. She reserved her household expenses, and took a moderate share of her earnings for her own dress, but all the rest was his. He drove ‘tandem’ in the Row with two of the most superb horses ever seen in that fashionable thoroughfare. In the early spring mornings he was seen cantering up and down on a magnificent Arab, which for breed and action was the envy of princes. He had his own four-in-hand coach, which he drove to Ranelagh, Hurlingham, and the various race meetings of the year, with a party of ‘select’ people on top—the kind of ‘select’ whom Delicia never knew or cared to know, consisting of actresses, betting men, ‘swells about town,’ and a sprinkling of titled dames, who had frankly thrown over their husbands in order to drink brandy privately, and play the female Don Juan publicly. Occasionally a ‘candid friend,’ moved by a laudable desire to make mischief between husband and wife, would arrive, full-armed at all points with gossip, and would casually remark to Delicia,—

‘Oh, by the way, I saw your husband at Ranelagh the other day with—well!—some _rather_ odd people!’ To which Delicia would reply tranquilly, ‘Did you? I hope he was amusing himself.’ Then with a straight, half-disdainful look of her violet eyes at the intruding meddler, she would add, ‘I know what you mean, of course! But it is a man’s privilege to entertain himself in his own fashion, even with “odd” people if he likes. “Odd” people are always infinitely diverting, owing to their never being able to recognise their own abnormal absurdity. And I never play spy on my husband. I consider a wife who condescends to become a detective as the most contemptible of creatures living.’

Whereupon the ‘candid friend,’ vexed and baffled, would retire behind an entrenchment of generalities, and afterwards, at ‘afternoons’ and social gatherings, would publicly opine that, ‘It was most probable Mrs Carlyon was carrying on a little game of her own, as she seemed so indifferent to her husband’s goings-on. She was a deep one, oh, yes! very deep! She knew a thing or two!—and perhaps, who could tell?—Paul Valdis had his own reasons for specially “fixing” her with his dark, passionate eyes whenever she appeared in her box at the theatre where he was playing the chief character in an English version of “Ernani.”’

It was true enough that Delicia was hardly ever seen at the places her husband most frequented, but this happened because he was fond of racing and she was not. She disliked the senseless, selfish and avaricious side of life so glaringly presented at the favourite ‘turf’ resorts of the ‘swagger’ set, and said so openly.

‘It makes me think badly of everybody,’ she declared once to her husband, when he had languidly suggested her ‘turning up’ at the Oaks. ‘I begin to wonder what was the use of Christ dying on the cross to redeem such greedy, foolish folk. I don’t want to despise my fellow-creatures, but I’m obliged to do it when I go to a race. So it’s better I should stay at home and write, and try to think of them all as well as I can.’

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 any rate.’

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 playful 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 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.’

Spartan sighed profoundly; he was not entirely satisfied in his canine mind. He gave one or two longing and wistful glances towards the door, but his wandering thoughts were quickly recalled to his immediate surroundings by the feeling of something warm and wet dropping on his head. It was a tear,—a bright tear, fallen from the beautiful eyes of his mistress,—and in anxious haste he pressed his rough body close against her with a mute caress of inquiring sympathy. In very truth Delicia was crying,—quietly and in a secret way, as though ashamed to acknowledge her emotion even to herself. As a rule, she liked to be able to give a reason for her feelings, but on this occasion she found it impossible to make any analysis of the cause of her tears. Yet they fell fast, and she wiped them away quickly with a little filmy handkerchief as fine as a cobweb, which Spartan, moved by a sudden desire to provide her with some harmless distraction from melancholy, made uncouth attempts to secure as a plaything. He succeeded so far in his clumsy gambols as to bring the flicker of a smile on her face at last, whereat he rejoiced exceedingly, and wagged his tail with a violence that threatened to entirely dislocate that useful member. In a few minutes she was quite herself again, and when her husband returned to dinner, met him with the usual beautiful composure that always distinguished her bearing, though there was an air of thoughtful resolve about her which accentuated the delicate lines of her features and made her look more intellectually classic than ever. When she took her seat at table that evening, her statuesque serenity, combined with her fair face, steadfast eyes, and rich hair knotted loosely at the back of her well-shaped head, gave her so much the aspect of something far superior to the ordinary run of mortal women, that Carlyon, fresh from a game of baccarat, where he had lost over three hundred pounds in a couple of hours, was conscious of a smarting sense of undefinable annoyance.

‘I wish you could keep our name out of the papers,’ he said suddenly, when dessert was placed before them, and the servants had withdrawn; ‘it is most annoying to me to see it constantly cropping up in all manner of vulgar society paragraphs.’

She looked at him steadfastly.

‘You used not to mind it so much,’ she answered, ‘but I am sorry you are vexed. I wish I could remedy the evil, but unfortunately I am quite powerless. When one is a public character, the newspapers will have their fling; it cannot possibly be helped; but if one is leading an honest life in the world, and has no disgraceful secrets to hide, what does it matter after all?’

‘I think it matters a great deal,’ he grumbled, as he carefully skinned the fine peach on his plate, and commenced to appreciate its flavour. ‘I hate to have my movements forestalled and advertised by the Press. And, as far as you are concerned, I am sure I heartily wish you were not a public character.’

She opened her eyes a little.

‘Do you? Since when? Since you became Lord Carlyon? My dear boy, if a trumpery little handle to your name is going to make you ashamed of your wife’s reputation as an author, I think it’s a great pity you ever succeeded to the title.’

‘Oh, I know you don’t care a bit about it,’ he said, keeping his gaze on the juicy peach; ‘but other people appreciate it.’

‘What other people?’ queried Delicia, laughing. ‘The droll little units that call themselves “society?” I daresay they do appreciate it—they have got nothing else to think or talk about but “he” and “she” and “we” and “they.” And yet poor old Mortlands, who was here this afternoon, forgot all about this same wonderful title many times, and kept on calling me “Miss Vaughan.” Then he apologised, and said in extenuation, that to add a “ladyship” to my name was “to gild refined gold and paint the lily.” That quotation has often been used before under similar circumstances, but he gave it quite a new flavour of gallantry.’

‘The Mortlands family dates back to about the same period as ours,’ said Carlyon, musingly.

‘As ours? Say as yours, my dear lord!’ returned Delicia, gaily, ‘for I am sure I do not know where the Vaughans come from. I must go down to the Heralds’ College and see if I cannot persuade someone in authority there to pick me out an ancestor who did great deeds before the Carlyons ever existed! Ancestral glory is such a question with you now, Will, that I almost wish I were the daughter of a Chicago pork-packer.’

‘Why?’ asked Carlyon, a trifle gloomily.

‘Why, because I could at any rate get up a past “Pilgrim Father” if necessary. A present-day reputation is evidently not sufficient for you.’

‘I think the old days were best,’ he said curtly.

‘Yes? When the men kept the women within four walls, as cows are kept in byres, and gave them just the amount of food they thought they deserved, and beat them if they were rebellious? Well, perhaps those times were pleasant, but I am afraid I should never have appreciated them. I prefer to see things advancing—as they are—and I like a civilisation which includes the education of women as well as of men.’

‘Things are advancing a great deal too quickly, in my opinion,’ said Carlyon, languidly, pouring out a glass of the choice claret beside him. ‘I should be inclined to vote for a little less rapid progress, in regard to women.’

‘Yet only the other day you were saying what a shame it was that women could not win full academic honours like men; and you even said that they ought to be given titles, in reward for their services to Science, Art and Literature,’ said Delicia. ‘What has made you change your opinion?’

He did not look up at her, but absently played with the crumbs on the table-cloth.

‘Well, I am not sure that it is the correct thing for women to appear very prominently in public,’ he said.

A momentary contraction of Delicia’s fine brows showed that a touch of impatience ruffled her humour. But she restrained herself, and said with perfect composure,—

‘I am afraid I don’t quite follow your meaning, unless, perhaps, your words apply to the new dancer, La Marina?’

He gave a violent start, and with a sudden movement of his hand upset his wine glass. Delicia watched the red wine staining the satiny whiteness of the damask table-cloth without any exclamation or sign of annoyance. Her heart was beating fast, because through her drooping lashes she saw her husband’s face, and read there an expression that was strange and new to her.

‘Oh, I know what has happened,’ he said fiercely, and with almost an oath, as he strove to wipe off the drops of Chateau Lafite that soiled his cuff as well as the table-cloth. ‘That woman Lefroy has been here telling tales and making mischief! I saw her, with her crew of social rowdies, at the Savoy the other night....’

‘And she saw you!’ interpolated Delicia, smiling.

‘Well, what if she did?’ he snapped out irritably. ‘I was introduced to La Marina by Prince Golitzberg—you know that German fellow—and he asked me to take her off his hands. He had promised her a supper at the Savoy, and at the last moment he was sent for to go to his wife, who was seized with sudden illness. I could not refuse to oblige him; he’s a decent sort of chap. Then, of course, as luck would have it, in comes that spoil-sport of a Lefroy and makes all this rumpus!’

‘My dear Will!’ expostulated Delicia, in gentle amazement, ‘what are you talking about? Where is the rumpus? What has Mrs Lefroy done? She simply mentioned to me to-day that she had seen you at the Savoy with this Marina, and there the matter ended, and, as far as I am concerned, there it will for ever end.’

‘That is all nonsense!’ said Carlyon, still wiping his cuff. ‘You know you are put out, or you wouldn’t look at me in the way you do!’

Delicia laughed.

‘What way am I looking?’ she demanded merrily. ‘Pray, my dear boy, don’t be so conceited as to imagine I mind your taking the Marina, or any amount of Marinas, to supper at the Savoy, if that kind of thing amuses you! Surely you don’t suppose that I bring myself into comparison with “ladies” of Marina’s class, or that I could be jealous of such persons? I am afraid you do not know me yet, Will, though we have spent such happy years together! You have neither fathomed the depth of my love, nor taken the measure of my pride! Besides,—I trust you!’ She paused. Then rising from the table, she handed him the little silver box containing his cigars. ‘Smoke off your petulance, dear boy!’ she said, ‘and join me upstairs when you are ready. We go to the Premier’s reception to-night, remember.’