renounced the world, but pursued a sphere of usefulness outside the
convent. Perhaps not, after all. Anyhow, her beloved pupils would not
have been so happy, for she is their idol. And maybe when, in the
little convent chapel, she pours out her virgin soul in solemn organ
strains, or when she communes alone with Nature in those sweet,
silent groves, and sends her dreams of higher life across the lovely
landscape, she knows more peace than could ever have been hers amid the
fever and fret of the toiling world of men.
[Illustration]
_THE CHEERY WOMAN_
Every one loves Mrs. Merrysmile, she is so bright and cheery and
lovable, in a holiday way. To be with her is as good as going to the
seaside, her breezy talk being as so much ozone. Yes, she is very
popular; a kind of female Brighton, that one goes to for the purpose
of being mentally braced up with general cheeriness and gaiety and
excitement. Other women are our Cromers and our Birchingtons, whither
we go for soothing rest and idle dreaming and world-forgetting but
Mrs. Merrysmile is our London-by-the-Sea. We dress ourselves in our
best to please her, and she keeps us on the alert. If we be dull and
out of sorts, she takes it as a personal reproach, for she is so
cheery herself that she cannot understand any ailment or misfortune
being sufficiently depressing to counteract her influence. In her eyes
dulness is an unpardonable offence, while to be invalided is to incur
her serious displeasure; if you chance to be either, Mrs. Merrysmile
attributes it merely to temper. She will tell you with a charmingly
frank affectation that she hates the afflicted, and that the positively
poor revolt her; but she professes to entertain the greatest sympathy
with enterprising criminals, while the audaciously unscrupulous
bankrupt is actually a hero in her eyes—a contrariness which must
not be regarded as due to any flaw in her moral attitude, for that
is quite above reproach, but simply to that effervescent cheeriness
which will not accept defeat in any form. She cannot understand any
one being beaten by circumstances, for, as she rather illogically puts
it, “Circumstances were made for slaves; I make my own.” She says a
great many things like this, by the way, and convinces herself, at all
events, even if others fail to quite catch her meaning.
She is a masterful little woman, and among her own relations and
immediate friends she is a perfect autocrat. Her constant cheeriness
commands everything, and preserves a family unity, for in every
emergency, in any dispute, in any trouble, Mrs. Merrysmile is the
centre towards which they all make, from which radiates all the
harmony. How many a family quarrel has been averted by her happily
apposite wit, how many a cloud has she laughed away with the sunshine
of her cheerful little heart! For though she pretends that humour
rather than affection is the key-note of her life, that she would
sacrifice any tender sentiment for the sake of a joke, Mrs. Merrysmile
is brimming over with love of kith and kind, and is peculiarly
sensitive to that touch of nature which makes the whole world kin.
Her never-failing cheeriness enables her to find some subject of
interest everywhere, and the most commonplace stranger has some point
that will appeal to her. Her universal sympathy is, in fact, quite
remarkable. She can talk with equal interest to the washerwoman with
seventeen children, a drunken husband and the rheumatics, and to the
lady-novelist with a few published books and an inordinate idea of
their merits and her own fame. She will enter into discussion upon
any subject of interest to the person with whom she may chance to be
conversing, irrespective of possibly her complete ignorance of it, yet
somehow she will leave an impression that she is quite conversant with
the matter. Her cheery manner and happy knack of saying the right thing
at the right moment would, I believe, carry her triumphantly through
a debate at the Royal Society, while I am convinced that if she had
a seat in Parliament, the members below the gangway would accept her
as their leader. They would not elect her; she would simply assume
the position as a matter of course, and there would be an end of the
matter, of course. Some women are born to lead as some men are, and
whatever the circumstances of their lives, they will lead those around
them. Mrs. Merrysmile is decidedly one of these women, but she leads by
her perpetual, irrepressible cheeriness. There is no gainsaying it, it
carries you along like a flood.
When I first met Mrs. Merrysmile I was in a hopeless state of
depression. I had been disappointed by a woman I loved, and was very
miserable, though I have no doubt I thoroughly deserved my fate. The
fact is, when I was in love I was so heart-whole about the matter, it
became so absolutely the only part of my life with which I had any
concern, that I am now quite convinced I must have been a nuisance
to the object of my adoration. For women do not love like this; they
do not care to be perpetually in the society of their lover, they
want change and the liberty of the subject. But, to a man who has no
confidence in himself, that liberty of the subject, in the case of the
woman he loves, always suggests possibilities of being superseded by
some more engaging lover. Women are not as constant as men. I say this
in no reproachful spirit, it is simply that their keener sensibility
renders them more liable to receive fresh impressions, and to feel
the influences of new personalities. Therefore, to a self-suspecting
lover as I have always been, doubting my own powers to engage a woman’s
constancy, jealousy, with all its petty irritations and its trivial
tyrannies, was bound to come between her and myself. It needs a very
strong and deep love to accept jealousy as an every-day accompaniment,
and I do not suppose I was able to inspire that. So my love-dreams
were roughly interrupted, and I was left to get over my sorrow and
disappointment as best I could. Happily for me, Mrs. Merrysmile chanced
upon my life at this opportune time. What I should have done without
her I scarcely dare to think. Anyhow, some years have passed since
then, and life has still its possibilities.
I remember, at our first meeting, in answer to some remark of hers,
I said, “Nothing matters,” and she reproved me with, “Everything
matters.” From that moment her cheeriness began to exert its influence
upon my life, for she had immediately divined that something was wrong
with me, and she determined to set it right. With a woman’s instinct
she guessed it was love. A man would have put it down to liver; but a
woman is sure that love is at the root of all evil. So Mrs. Merrysmile
began to work in her own cheery, womanly way, and I, little suspecting
her methods, lent myself to them entirely. She would draw me out every
day on the subject of my love, and I, believing her to be wholly
sympathetic, would tell her all that was in my heart, and she would
say that she liked me to talk of that other woman. And I would do so,
until, without noticing it, I talked less of her, and found that I was
drifting into an interest for Mrs. Merrysmile herself, irrespective of
her sympathy in my love-affair. Then this became accentuated by her
persistent high spirits and jocularity, for though our surroundings
of sea and cliff and cornfields, with the infinite poetry of
ever-changing skies and moonlit nights, with their majestic mysteries,
held me ever in the sentimental mood, and I believed her to be in tune
with me, I would frequently receive a shock of discord from her sudden
and unconscious leap from the sentimental to the grotesque, from the
sublime to the ridiculous. She would rudely break an exquisite silence,
which to me had meant a meeting of souls, a mute embrace of thoughts,
with some irrelevant remark, some inconsequent gossip, which would jar
upon me terribly, but which would really bring me nearer to her, for I
would obstinately refuse to believe I had mistaken her soulfulness and
beautiful womanliness, notwithstanding those jarring inconsistencies,
which I could only regard as the excrescences of her natural cheeriness.
So I grew to love her in spite of myself, and then I began to realise
that Mrs. Merrysmile was really an agreeable little flirt who had
only taken any trouble to cultivate my affection—which she certainly
did very artistically—because I was so absorbed in the woman who had
naturally grown tired of me. This, to Mrs. Merrysmile, seemed not only
a great pity for myself, but a slight to her own vanity, a waste of
sound affection, and to remedy it presented an interesting experiment
for a few idle weeks’ occupation. Those silences which I thought so
beautifully mutual in feeling, as we sat and gazed over the blue deep,
and into those wonderful summer skies which seemed to contain a world’s
epic in their spacious mysteries, were, after all, most humorous
interludes to her, full of amusing conjecture; but she could no more
help all this than she could help talking.
Life is a constant carnival to Mrs. Merrysmile, and love is a
delightful pastime which is necessary for her entertainment. There
is no harm in it; her love-making is, indeed, of the most innocent
kind, in fact, it is purely psychological, without a suspicion of
passion, which would only seem incongruous to her. To be loved is
essential to her; every one who comes in contact with her must give
her of his heart’s best affection. She is satisfied with nothing else,
and though she and her husband are on terms of mutual affection and
perfect confidence, she takes all the love she can get as her absolute
right. That she should give any in return never occurs to her; it is
sufficient that she scatters her cheeriness broadcast, relieves her
friends and relations of all their depressions, keeps them in good
spirits, and, if they be dull or ill, bullies them with a view to
mending their ways. But she loves, in her own way, as the butterfly
loves the flower that it casually kisses in the garden, and surely
the flower is all the sweeter for the butterfly’s kiss. I know I
feel all the better for having touched hearts with Mrs. Merrysmile,
though her way of loving was not my way, and my sentimental devotion
was as congruous with her butterfly heart-flutterings as the Nasmyth
steam-hammer with the tin-tack.
The humour of the situation was always uppermost in her mind though
it had to compete for this place with the gratification of her vanity
and the pleasure of passing the time cheerfully for us both, and she
could not understand that the whole affair did not present itself to
me in exactly the same light. As immunity from contradiction of any
kind had been hers throughout her life, both as maid and as wife,
my frequent failure to fall in with her ideas as to the humour of
our flirtation—for to her it was really nothing more, though in her
innocent way she pretended to regard it as a real love-affair—it was
not to be wondered at that our confidential communings became less
constant, until my lover-like attitude developed into that of the
elderly friend. You cannot go on loving desperately a woman to whom
everything is simply funny, or, at least, suggestion for a jest. And
that is one of the drawbacks of a _par excellence_ cheery woman. You
want to love the woman rather than her jokes, or even her bright
spirits, charming as the faculty for these undoubtedly is. But as a
man’s moods vary so does he expect the woman he loves to respond to
them. Incessant cheeriness and readiness to see only the quaint or
comic side of things, if unchecked in expression, is apt to turn life
into a farce, and even the merriest farce jars when one is only in the
temper for romantic drama, or when pathos is the dominant note of the
moment.
Yet with all her irresponsibility of feeling, with all her irrelevance
of mood, Mrs. Merrysmile is quite one of the most delightful companions
for man or woman. She is a woman’s woman quite as much as a man’s, but
I would specially recommend her at times of joy and frolic rather than
of sorrow—however excellent her intention to cheer you and help you
make the best of everything. For so casual is her nature that troubles
will scarcely present their actual aspect to her in relation to all the
surrounding facts of life; she will think they are not really as heavy
and important as you think them, but rather chide you for making such
a fuss. It is from no lack of sympathy that this charming little woman
will not always understand your feelings, but simply that her native
cheerfulness is so superabundant; she cannot realise that things can
ever be as bad as less optimistic persons imagine. And if, when you
feel ill, she tells you bluntly that there is little or nothing the
matter with you, it is only because she believes too much sympathy is
not conducive to effort towards recovery, and she hates to see people
ill. It is perhaps very irritating, but it is her way, and it is quite
good-natured.
I should hardly recommend Mrs. Merrysmile as a consoler in a house of
mourning; the very brightness of her disposition might clash with the
grief of the bereaved ones, and an obstinate contrariness of spirit,
coupled with a desire to make everybody as cheerful as herself,
might, perhaps, give pain where she intended comfort. Nor would Mrs.
Merrysmile be a suitable wife for a man of melancholy mood or morose
temper, for she would jar upon him with her intemperate cheerfulness
and unmuzzled mirth, while he would bore her unutterably. But she
is just happily placed as she is, with a husband ready to worship
the ground she walks upon, with a host of friends and relations that
defer to her autocratic word with infinite pleasure, and a friend,
who is glad to have loved her, but is just as content, and after all,
perhaps happier, to have won her friendship through the more subtle and
intimate insight into her nature gained as a lover. She is a delightful
little creature, but she should always live in the sunshine and amid
the roses. There she is perfectly appropriate, and life is the richer
and the fairer for her presence.
_THE UNCONJUGAL WOMAN_
Lady Gladys Parchment is one of the most familiar, as she is one of the
most admired, figures in London society, and to the ordinary observer
she is one of the most happy and fortunate. For is she not exceedingly
beautiful? Does she not come of an old and noble family, though it
be more distinguished in these hard times for pedigree and nobility,
perhaps, than for property? And is she not wedded to a man of splendid
fortune and reputation? True he is some twenty years her senior; but
then, if he were not, he would hardly be of sufficiently mature age
to have attained the dignity of a judgeship, and in this intensely
practical age we are obliged to pay a price for everything. In her
case, Lady Gladys, the daughter of a poor Irish earl, had to pay for
the advantage of marrying a wealthy English judge the price of heavy
disparity in years, with its consequences. And was Sir Drury Parchment
worth the price?
Had Lady Gladys not been born in the purple, so that, by the
conventional aspirations of her order, and a kind of fictional duty to
her rank and station, she was constrained to make a wealthy marriage
or suffer social obscurity, would she not rather have wedded less
advantageously, from a worldly point of view, and more congruously
in a heart sense? But it is very difficult for a girl—with little
experience of the world beyond the ball-room, the tennis-lawn, and the
hunting-field, who cannot possibly realise all that matrimony means—to
argue successfully against the logic of wealth and position, when her
heart remains an unconcerned auditor. Yet marriage either makes or mars
the life of the individual, it cannot leave it _in statu quo_, but must
either complete or disintegrate it. Irrespective of material fortune,
the life of a man or woman may be adjudged a success or a failure
according as it is blessed with the right mate or cursed with the wrong
one. So long as it remains actually mateless, and without the response
of love, it is simply unfinished.
Now, when a beautiful and brilliant woman, with apparently every
worldly advantage at her command, takes a pessimistic view of life,
and assumes a cynical attitude towards the world, you may be sure that
she has married the wrong man, and made a failure of her life. And
you cannot converse long and familiarly with Lady Gladys Parchment
without perceiving this. Her talk may sparkle with wit, and ripple over
with humour, but it will be the keen, biting wit of the cynic, the
bitter humour of the pessimist, and there is no mistaking it for the
pleasantry of cheerful content. Her sarcasm has a grim laughter in it,
but it is as the mocking laughter of disappointed genius when it hears
superficial talent winning the popular plaudits. In society Lady Gladys
shines because of her personal and mental gifts, she loves society
simply for the enjoyment of conquest which it affords, and this has to
make up for so much else in her life. Indeed, she finds so little else
in life at all.
Sir Drury Parchment is a man of violent temper and dyspeptic
temperament, but his moods are various, inconsequent, and unexpected.
It is impossible to foresee the changes of his temper. He will sulk for
days without any apparent cause, he will, for weeks together, exhibit
no interest whatever in the doings of his wife and child, and then
suddenly he will evince a fierce jealousy of every detail that concerns
them, but this will never be accompanied by any show of affection.
Sentiment of any kind is foreign to his nature, and, whatever his mood,
it is always pure egotism that dominates it. How such a confirmed
egotist came to be married at all has always been a puzzle to me,
especially how he ever came to marry Lady Gladys, who is about the last
woman in the world he should have chosen, if marriage means communion
of any kind.
[Illustration]
Lady Gladys always had exceptional intellectual gifts and a singularly
quick comprehension. She would, even as a girl, swoop down upon
a subject and illuminate it with brilliant paradox which, if not
convincing, would certainly be memorable. She would sum up a character
in a few epigrammatic phrases, and, though the result might be a
caricature, it was certainly a striking one. She would present an
original view of any subject she discussed, and, though it might be a
view which logical argument could easily prove fallacious, it would
nevertheless leave a distinct personal impression. For Lady Gladys had
the quality of imagination very strongly, and this coloured her talk as
it mystified her life. She would never see life and things and people
as they really were.
Sir Drury was struck by her mental faculties; her sparkling talk amused
and interested him as her beauty delighted him. He was a widower, and
did not regret the loss of his late wife, whose perpetual placidity and
devoted docility had irritated him more than any contradiction. Now
he decided that Lady Gladys should tempt him to a second venture in
matrimony, so he proposed and was accepted; for, though there was no
question of love in the matter, he was an exceedingly clever as well as
wealthy and professionally distinguished man, and he interested her.
She was flattered by his consideration, and she imagined a future of
social triumph for them both.
But marriage soon proved to them that they were eternally separate,
that under no circumstances could there be any compromise between
them. She conceived a loathing towards him from their marriage-day, and
he was not slow to perceive this and to resent it. Her very beauty and
brilliancy became hateful to him, because he felt that they were not
really his, and yet he wished to be master of them. He was jealous that
others should admire her, and he have no pride of possession, though
she bore his name. So, though they lived before the world according
to social conventions, he exercised a species of petty tyranny over
her with a view to humiliating her before the society for which she
lived, and so spiting her. He would allow her to go entirely her own
way for some time, never caring whither she went, never accompanying
her in public, never appearing when she “received” at home. Then, of
course, people would begin to wonder and whisper, and in defiance she
would go out alone all the more, and send out invitations to “At Homes”
and dinner-parties, when she would always receive her guests with
fictitious apologies for her husband.
But on one occasion, as the guests drove up to the door, they were told
by the servants that Lady Gladys could not receive them. No excuse was
given, and every one went away wondering. Sir Drury had ordered it so;
but this was the crisis. He had humiliated his wife, not only before
her friends, but before her servants. How could she continue to live
under the same roof with him, to even pretend amicable relations with
him! She must go and live elsewhere, and take her child with her. No,
that he would not permit. _She_ might go where she liked, but the child
must remain. So, of course, she remained; for, though she hated her
husband more than ever, and now he watched her with jealous suspicion,
she was a mother, and the ties of motherhood proved stronger than her
conjugal repulsion.
And now her woman’s nature asserted itself. Her unfortunate marriage
had kept the voices of love and passion till now dumb within her; but
in her unhappiness they cried out in sad yearning tones. Her soul ached
for true companionship, her womanhood craved for love. Her imagination
had hitherto served her, and Society had furnished her with excitement,
but now she wanted more, and with the demand came the supply. In fact,
there was always a supply of lovers ready to her hand, had she wanted
them, for she was beautiful; but she never did want them, though she
would accept the constant escort of cavaliers in the Row, to the
theatre, and elsewhere.
But these Guardsmen and men-of-fashion who would ride and drive with
her, meant nothing to her beyond pleasant riding and driving escorts,
and when they tried to be something more—which was not infrequent,
considering her personal charms—she laughed it off with amiable
sarcasm. One, however, at length appeared in her social circle who drew
her to him magnetically. He was not one of the usual Society and club
loungers, but a man who had lived a life of adventure in many lands,
had seen many strange and wonderful sights, and known many remarkable
people. He had explored unknown countries, and contributed new facts
to knowledge, so that his name was honoured by learned societies.
Yet there was no assumption of the hero about him; on the contrary,
there was nothing he so genuinely disliked as being lionised. He was
cosmopolitan in ideas, simple and graceful in manner, with a persuasive
charm that was almost invincible. He was a born leader of men, had he
chosen to lead them; he was a born wooer of women, and he did choose
to woo them, for his weakness was a pretty face. But his method of
wooing was very insidious. He did not worship at their feet, nor did
he play much upon sentiment, but he would mock them with adoration,
persuasively find fault with them, cunningly coax them into defending
themselves and their sex against charges of inconstancy, frivolity, and
frailty, and then perplex them with paradox and sophistry, until they
were quite convinced that he was the most fascinatingly dangerous man
they had ever met, and were simply mad to meet him again. Then he would
make himself scarce.