A certain change was no doubt observable in Marion. It might have been
supposed that a life so secluded and reserved as hers had been thus far,
would not have encountered the novel conditions of wealth and fashion
without some awkwardness and bewilderment. But it was not so. She met
the Goddess of Fortune half-way, and seemed in no respect at a loss how
to greet her. In fact, the only sign she betrayed of being unaccustomed
to abundant worldly resources was the activity and despatch she showed
in taking advantage of them; as if life offered nothing but a variety of
diversions, and it was incumbent upon one who appreciated life at its
true value to canvass that variety in the shortest space possible.
Whether she held, further, that the variety was to be inexhaustible, or
the life short, did not appear. Philip was at first pleased with her
alacrity; afterwards, his pleasure was less, and his surprise greater.
He had promised himself some gratification in introducing his wife to
the greater society, and initiating her into its splendors and
amusements: but he found, not only that his leadership was unnecessary,
but that he would have to exert himself to be the leader at all. Marion
was fully equal to her position and opportunities. She faced the sun
unshrinkingly, and, indeed, with a smile almost as of half-contemptuous
familiarity. When she referred to the simplicity and difficulty of her
previous experience, it was generally to expose the humorous aspect of
the contrast with the present.
“What a beautiful thing wealth is!” she exclaimed one day to her
husband.
“Glad you think so,” the latter replied, cautiously: for he seldom could
be sure, nowadays, whether Marion’s observations would turn out serious
or cynical.
“ ’Tis the best missionary in the world,” she continued; “it
Christianizes even tradesmen, and makes them self-sacrificing. And the
curious part is, that ’tis not their being wealthy themselves, but their
knowing us to be, that makes them so magnanimous. When mother and I were
poor--pardon my mentioning such a thing, but ’tis only between
ourselves--our tradesmen not only permitted us to pay our bills, but
insisted on our doing so promptly: and if we got behindhand, they
growled about bailiffs. But now--la! bless you, the mention of a bill
hurts their feelings, and to pay one would break their hearts. It’s a
blessed change of heart in them; and would have been more blessed still
if it had only happened to come before our change of pocket, instead of
after.”
“If we go on at our present rate, both they and we may relapse,” said
Philip, laughing. “Twenty thousand pounds capital is not twenty thousand
a year.”
“It is, for one year; and who knows what may happen after that? We might
count on two years, even: the faith of the tradesmen would hold out so
long at least.”
“They don’t ask us to pay now only because they know their money is
safe,” said Mrs. Lockhart, with her pathetic literalness. “And they
don’t lose anything, because our orders are larger, and their prices are
higher. And you should be just as careful not to run in debt, my dear,
when you are rich as when you are poor.”
Marion looked at her mother with an odd smile. “I wish you’d let me
forget you,” she said at length. “You’ve been encouraging me all my life
to be a woman of fashion, and now you turn against me. But I’m
determined not to be baulked!”
And in truth, Marion had made a good beginning. The old house in
Hammersmith had been shut up (it was her desire that it should be
neither let nor sold) and they had gone into the new and improved
mansion whereof Fillmore had spoken to Perdita. They kept a carriage and
horses, half-a-dozen servants, and an excellent table; gave parties and
routs to their fashionable acquaintance, and accepted the like
civilities from them. It was the thing in society at that moment to go
to the Lancasters: Philip was a genius, besides being nearly related to
Lord Seabridge; Marion was charming, witty, and fully up to her
position; her father, it was understood, had been a distinguished
officer and a personal friend of the Iron Duke. Among the most notable
of their new friends was old Lady Flanders, who not only honored their
drawing-room with her presence when the rest of the world was there, but
quite often took the trouble to drop in on them informally. She had once
or twice met Mrs. Lockhart in London and at the Baths, when the latter
was lovely Fanny Pell, forty years or so ago, and she now came
ostensibly to renew her acquaintance with that lady, and to talk over
the old times. But in the midst of these amiable reminiscences, it was
observable that she gave a good deal of attention to young Mrs.
Lancaster, who seemed to have a peculiar interest for her.
“You like having money, Mrs. Lancaster,” her ladyship remarked one day,
after examining critically a new dress which Marion had on.
“I cannot deny it, Lady Flanders.”
“Nonsense! A woman like you can deny anything. But you’re quite in the
right not to deny it. We hear a great deal from silly people about the
dignity of poverty. That is just what poverty is not: poverty is not
dignified! ’Tis hard enough to hold up one’s head at the best of
times--such arrant knaves and humbugs as we all are, and all of us
except the fools know it: but on an empty pocket ’tis impossible! I
recollect when I was in Egypt, about thirty years ago, meeting a Bedouin
Arab who, I thought for a while, was an exception to the rule. He hadn’t
a rag on him, except a greasy turban and a yard of ragged cloak dangling
down his back; he was as dirty as a stable floor; but he had the bearing
of a prince--though not of a good many princes I could name, neither.
That man (said I) is an incarnation of dignity and a type of poverty,
both in one: and if he’d have me, I’d marry him to-night! What were we
talking about?”
“That poverty could not be dignified.”
“Aye: very true. So, just to prove my rule by this exception, said I,
‘My friend, I’ll give you fourpence to go up to the top of that pyramid
and be back here again in five minutes.’ He dropped his dignity--it was
about all he had to drop, as I told you--and scuttled up that pyramid
like a squirrel. He earned his fourpence, and I married his lordship.”
Here Lady Flanders took snuff, and added, “You may live to find out, Mr.
Lancaster, that you’ve been too avaricious. You weren’t satisfied with a
wife; you must have a fortune into the bargain. Look out you don’t find
yourself without both some fine morning.”
“Your ladyship is kind to forewarn me,” said Philip, who was always
rubbed the wrong way by Lady Flanders.
“You don’t believe me: but you are a poet and a philosopher, and you
comprehend the structure of the universe too clearly to see into your
own domestic business. You don’t know, at this moment, what to make of
your wife’s extravagance and ambition. She used to be quite different,
didn’t she? And you understood her character so well, you were sure
prosperity couldn’t spoil her.--They are all like that, my dear,” she
continued, turning to Marion; “they load us down to the water’s edge, or
below it, and expect us to dance about and mind the helm just as
prettily as when we were unburdened. They don’t know our weapons; they
can feel them in their hearts, or in their purses, or in what they call
their honor; but they can never see what strikes them, or how they are
struck. I don’t blame you, my dear: give him all he deserves: but I have
a regard for you, and shouldn’t like to see you crippling yourself in
the process. But you have a head to see your way, as well as a heart to
feel his impositions. I shall look for you to give a good account of him
a year hence. ’Tis a pity he hasn’t a title. But we may be able to get
him one: I’ll see about it. I have found such things very useful.”
It was difficult to say what Lady Flanders meant by this kind of
diatribes, which, indeed, were never more embarrassing than when she
took it for granted that her interlocutor was sagacious enough to
understand her. It was plain, nevertheless, that this awful old
aristocrat possessed an uncomfortable keenness of insight; and that she
generally put the worst construction on whatever she saw. Philip
perceived that she enjoyed opposition, as giving her an opportunity for
repartee, in which she was fatally proficient; and therefore he seldom
entered into a discussion with her. But what she said about Marion, and
her general tone regarding her, appealed to a certain obscure misgiving
in Philip’s own mind, and made him feel more ill at ease than he would
have liked to confess. He smiled as complacently as he could; but the
smile was painfully superficial.
From Marion herself, meanwhile, he could obtain little or no
satisfaction. He did not like to speak to her “seriously” on the
subject, partly because he could not exactly define to himself what the
subject was, and partly, perhaps, because he feared to discover that
the subject, be it what it might, would turn out more serious than might
be agreeable.
“You deserve credit for being so civil to that hideous old woman,” he
would sometimes say.
“Not at all!” Marion would reply laughingly. “Lady Flanders represents
the world. I am going to be a woman of the world, and so I pay court to
her. She tells me a great many things ’tis necessary I should know. The
objection is on my side.”
“You are going to be a woman of the world, are you?”
“La! of course. What would you have me do? I used to be very busy
washing clothes and getting the dinner, in the old times; but now I have
a laundress and a cook and a housekeeper, and nothing to attend to
except inviting our guests and making myself agreeable to them. When we
were in Hammersmith I was what I had to be; now I can be what I please;
and it pleases me to be like ... other fine ladies.”
“Could you not make yourself agreeable to your guests and to me at the
same time?”
“To you? Why, you are my husband!”
“Very true, Mrs. Lancaster.”
“What can be more agreeable to you than to see your wife popular in
Society?”
“We thought of something better than that when ... we first fell in love
with each other,” said Philip, fixing his eyes upon her.
“Something different: but was it better? or so wise? Are not a hundred
people more amusing than one? At all events, we must take the evil with
the good of our position. Love in a cottage is one thing, you know, and
love in a palace another.”
“No love at all, perhaps you mean?”
“No such love, that’s all.”
“Well, if you’re content, I’ve no more to say.”
“Content! How should I not? My ambition isn’t satisfied, though. I mean
to be spoken of as ‘the beautiful Mrs. Lancaster’ one of these days. Oh,
it will come to pass, I assure you! The first thing one generally says,
when one is shown a fashionable beauty, is, ‘What! that homely
creature!’--’tis all a matter of dress and effrontery. I shall do very
well. What do you think of my gown?”
“Very fine. But what about the effrontery?”
“At all events, that costs no money,” said Marion, with a laugh.
Marion’s social success was undeniably great. She possessed both tact
and courage--two qualities not always found in company; and she had more
intelligence than most of the women she came in contact with. Her figure
and movement were fine, her dress always in good taste; her voice
agreeable; her face had a poignancy and variety of expression that
produced the effect of beauty without being beautiful. At her
presentation at Court, the Prince of Wales, who had complimented her
mother more than a generation before, informed Marion that she made him
wish he was young again, begad! She speedily found herself surrounded by
a circle of gentlemen who were only too ready to express their
admiration for her; prominent among whom was the little Irish poet,
Thomas Moore, who was not disheartened by the unceremonious treatment
she had given him at their first interview: and she completed her
conquest of him by singing a song which he vowed he had composed in her
praise. Young Mrs. Lancaster was in demand everywhere: her box at the
theatre and the opera was always crowded; when she rode or drove in the
Row, she was attended by a retinue of cavaliers: she played cards,
danced, talked politics, and, in short, ignored the inside and
celebrated the outside of life. Lady Flanders looked on at it all,
grinned horribly beneath her shaggy eyebrows, and neglected no
opportunity of congratulating Philip on being the husband of so
brilliant a woman. “You must look out for your laurels, Mr. Lancaster,”
she would add: “ ‘Iduna’ was well enough for the idyllic period, but you
must give us something better now; make the lady elope with the Lord
Chamberlain, and leave the Sea-God in the lurch.” Mrs. Lockhart, on the
other hand, whose nature it was always to enjoy what was good in the
world, and not to see or believe in the bad, was placidly happy in the
conviction that her daughter was as prosperous as she deserved to be,
and as merry as she seemed. Marion was uniformly careful not to disturb
the maternal serenity, though once she startled the poor lady by
exclaiming “Oh, I wish Mr. Grant were alive!” with a passionate moan in
her voice like the outcry of a soul in despair.
Was anything the matter, then? Marion had no confidants, except
solitude, which tells no tales. But it may be conjectured that, when she
yielded to her husband on the question of the legacy, she gave up, once
for all, her view of right, and set herself to adopt his own. “If Philip
wants wealth,” she might have said to herself, “it must be to reap the
worldly advantages of it. These are necessary to his happiness: and ’tis
my duty, therefore, to help him, as a wife should, to be happy in his
own way. I take my law from him; I will have no half measures: and he
shall have just the fashionable, dashing, rattling wife that he wants.”
Having laid down this general principle, it would be characteristic of
Marion to act upon it fervently. No doubt she was far from being
incapable of appreciating the charm that lies in social dissipation; but
she would perhaps have thrown herself into it with less of recklessness
and abandon, had she gained access to it by some less humiliating path.
There was a pride and nobility in her that had the effect of making her
give more energy and prominence to conduct which opposed her conscience
than to that which was approved by it. She startled and perplexed
Philip, and fascinated him also; he found in her a vigor and activity
superior to his own. She out-Heroded Herod; he had not suspected all
this latent power; and yet he felt that something tender and sweet and
infinitely valuable, was missing. There were between them no more silent
sympathies and intuitive agreements. What was to be done and said, not
thought and felt, was now the subject of their intercourse. Their
communication was more lively but less satisfying than of yore.
What was Marion’s idea and intention in this? Did she really believe
that it was what her husband wanted? Logically, perhaps, she did so; but
scarcely in her heart. Women, when they are logical, generally are so in
an extreme and illogical way; as if to demonstrate how contemptible
logic is. More than half her vivacity may have been assumed in order to
provoke Philip into finding fault with it; and yet, if he did find fault
with it, she would profess herself at a loss to know what on earth would
please him. If he suggested moderation, she would say “No: I must be one
thing or the other.” If he replied “Be the other, then,” she would
answer, “Too late, now I have learnt how pleasant dissipation is.” And
if he asked her whether dissipation were the true end of marriage? she
would laugh and reply that one cannot have everything in this world.
Thus, by degrees, were these two married lovers, who had begun their
career under such fair auspices, drawing away from each other: what was
best in each of them was starving for lack of nourishment; but Marion,
at least, was proud enough to starve to death rather than confess to
suffering. As a matter of course, since they could not meet in the only
way worth meeting, they looked away from each other as much as
possible. Philip tried to find consolation in his poetry: but the
faculty of happy concentration and abstraction no longer came to him as
formerly. The loving and confidential talks which he and Marion had been
wont to have, about what he was writing, or purposing to write, were
hardly practicable now; but, if he found the craving for intellectual
sympathy too strong in him, there was always one place where he was sure
to find it, and that was in the private boudoir of the Marquise
Desmoines. She always welcomed him with loveliness and delightful words:
she looked him in the eye and spoke to the point: he felt the immediate
contact of her mind and nature, and experienced from it a secret sense
of luxury and consolation. At first, Perdita used to inquire courteously
after Marion; but after a time these inquiries became rarer, and finally
ceased. Nor did Philip happen to mention these visits to his wife: what
would it matter to her where he went or what he found to converse about?
She probably had her own interests and occupations, of which he was
ignorant. She would only laugh, and say that he was fulfilling Lady
Flanders’ predictions.
Once in a while, in the midst of all this gayety and resonance, Marion’s
laugh would suddenly end in a long, shuddering sigh, and her eyes would
grow hot and dry. But she would laugh again, and utter some witty,
extravagant speech, if she thought her husband was observing her. And
once, at night, Philip chanced to awake, and fancied that Marion was
weeping, and the bed was shaken by her smothered sobs. But, when he
spoke to her, she started, and declared, after a moment, that she had
been asleep, and had a nightmare. “I dreamt Lady Flanders had grown
young and beautiful,” she said, “and wore a dress handsomer than mine:
and it broke my heart!” Whereupon Philip said no more.