AN
ODD COUPLE
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF “CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” “SALEM CHAPEL,”
“THE MINISTER’S WIFE,” &C.
PHILADELPHIA:
PORTER AND COATES,
NO. 822 CHESTNUT STREET.
PRESS OF
HENRY B. ASHMEAD,
1102 and 1104 Sansom St.
AN ODD COUPLE.
CONTENTS.
_CHAPTER I._
PAGE
_He, and She_ 7
_CHAPTER II._
_Conjugality_ 27
_CHAPTER III._
_A Mediator_ 42
_CHAPTER IV._
_The Breach Accomplished_ 56
_CHAPTER V._
_Education_ 74
_CHAPTER VI._
_The Captain of the Eleven_ 91
_CHAPTER VII._
_A Dinner at Hyde Park Square_ 111
_CHAPTER VIII._
_The Villa_ 130
_CHAPTER IX._
_The Villa_ (_continued_) 141
_CHAPTER X._
_Edward_ 153
_CHAPTER XI._
_The Day After_ 163
_CHAPTER XII._
_Romance_ 178
_CHAPTER XIII._
_An Anxious Mother_ 193
_CHAPTER XIV._
_The Boy’s Appeal_ 214
_CHAPTER XV._
_The Girl’s Escape_ 229
_CHAPTER XVI._
_Conclusion--The Father’s Share_ 244
AN ODD COUPLE.
CHAPTER I.
HE, AND SHE.
“In that case, perhaps, it would be better that we should part!”
These ominous words were said very steadily and precisely, but with a
certain sense of nervous excitement in the utterance, by Mr. Charles
Tremenheere, one morning in November, in his own drawing-room, and were,
I need scarcely say, addressed to his own wife. To whom else could they
have been said? He was not the kind of man who might have been expected
to speak words striking at the very root of family existence, being,
indeed, a very orderly and respectable personage,--anything but a
revolutionary. The amount of provocation which he had endured before he
said them need not be entered into here. He had been married about ten
years, and had two children, a boy of nine and a girl of seven. Mrs.
Tremenheere was seated opposite to him at a small work-table knitting,
with a composure which was aggravating to the last degree. Her needles
met each other with tranquil regularity, and not a single dropped stitch
or irregular line bore witness to any excitement of feeling. They were
middle-aged people, and might very well have been married twenty years
instead of ten. He was standing in the favorite attitude of Englishmen,
in front of the fire, a thin angular man, moving with a certain
jerkiness and rapidity, slightly bald, with refined features, and hair
growing gray, and looking very much what he was, a clerk in a public
office, much more experienced and learned in the country’s business than
was in general the distinguished “chief” at the head of the department,
though he was a Minister of State and probably a Grand Seigneur, Knight
of the Garter, and everything that was splendid--while his instructor
and referee who kept him out of mischief was only Mr. Charles
Tremenheere. Nevertheless, the injustice in this respect was more
apparent than real, for Mr. Tremenheere was a man as well known in those
high regions from which the country is ruled as the Queen herself, and
most people whose opinion he cared about were perfectly acquainted with
the real standing of which the vulgar knew nothing. “Tremenheere will
keep him right,” the Premier himself said when he appointed the rising
man of the day Secretary of State for _that_ department. Indeed, I need
not tell you, dear reader, which department it was. It is in very good
hands and does not require our interference, and it is enough for the
purpose of the narrative that you should know who this gentleman was. He
had been very much in society in his younger days, and still kept up his
old friends, though his wife, whose taste was somewhat different from
his own, had separated him from the tide of fashion; and he loved
society, judging men and things by the standard in favor there, and
making but small account of qualities which were not appreciated in
these finest circles. This was a grave ground of debate between his wife
and himself. They did not quarrel according to the ordinary pattern of
conjugal quarrels. She was not a scold nor he a villain; he behaved as a
gentleman should and she like a well-bred woman. But they differed
incessantly, continually, with the heat of people who quarrel about
convictions, a thing more persistent than the light differences which
arise on every-day subjects; and so at last it had come to
this--“Perhaps in that case it would be better that we should part!”
Mr. Tremenheere felt when he said this that he had discharged his last
volley. What more could he say or do? and he expected it to startle and
appal his calm antagonist. He thought that an utterance so trenchant, so
final, would penetrate through all her defences, and make her feel what
it was to defy a man who was her natural head, her social
representative. Almost, he expected to see the common appeal of
womankind which he had read of in books, and which everybody, so far as
he knew (who was not married to Mrs. Tremenheere), believed in. Mrs.
Tremenheere had never yet wept to him nor pleaded for forgiveness. She
had never broken down under any of his reproaches--never been melted
into helplessness by his appeals. Would she do it now--would she
cry--would she throw herself at his feet or on his neck and ask him to
take back that cruel suggestion? Inevitably it must bring her to
herself.
But, indeed, the result was not as he anticipated. Mrs. Tremenheere bore
the shock with wonderful composure. She scarcely raised her head; she
scarcely paused in her knitting. She allowed him to speak as calmly as
if he had been saying, “I will dine at my club.” And then there followed
an interval of silence which was as if the spheres stood still to Mr.
Tremenheere. His eyes were upon her, but she did not look at him. Was it
that she did not dare to look at him? Was it her pride which kept her
eyes on her knitting, her head bowed down? one or the other it must be.
But if she did not feel the shock, he did, when Mrs. Tremenheere,
raising her head and looking at him, without any of the excitement in
her eyes which blinded his, replied quietly, “I have no doubt, as things
have gone so far, that it would be the best--in every way.”
“Good God! Ada,” he said in sudden horror. “What do you mean?”
“It is not what I mean, Mr. Tremenheere. I have not taken any
initiative. We do not agree, unfortunately, or think alike in anything;
but it was not I who called attention to this. I had made up my mind to
go on and make the best of it. But when you see it so clearly I feel
that it would be foolish to contradict you. Yes,” she said with a sigh;
“it is a pity, but I think you are right: and separation would be the
best.”
“You think so!” he said, furious. “Oh, you think so! Good heavens! and
this is what it is to end in, after all that has come and gone!”
“It was not I who suggested it,” she said, resuming her knitting; “but
since you think so, dear----”
“Dear! dear comes in well in such a discussion,” said the husband
furiously. He left the fire and strode across to the window, and stood
gazing out with his back to her. The sight of her composure made him
wild. “If we are to arrange this let it be without any pretence of false
affection. Conventional humbug may at least be put away now.”
“I am never conventional that I know of,” she said slightly roused. “We
do not agree, Charles; but why should we hate each other? It is this
that would be conventional, not an innocent word.”
“Oh, confound your innocent words,” he muttered through his teeth; but
this she did not hear, nor was she intended to hear it. He could hear
the slight stir of her needles where he stood looking out upon the
rolling of the fog which now lifted a little, now came down heavier.
Nothing could be more doleful than the prospect out-of-doors. Hyde Park,
which was opposite, threw up a line of spectral trees into the yellow of
the atmosphere. The passengers went by slipping upon the greasy
pavement, the horses surrounded themselves with a halo of white breath
like the _nimbus_ of a mediæval saint; the kind of day from which you
shrink and turn to the cheerful fire within; but to poor Mr. Tremenheere
the fog itself was more cheerful than the genial blaze near which the
wife sat in her warm velvet dress, the impersonation of domestic
comfort. How comfortable she looked! He saw her very well, though his
back was turned. With a matronly fulness of person,--not too much, only
enough to be becoming,--light brown hair, not changed or touched by
time, and a great deal more abundant than is usual nowadays. It seemed
suddenly to flash upon him how changed the room would look without her,
and the house and all his daily life. Was it possible that she could be
so hard-hearted, so cruel, so blind to every duty? If it had not been
his own suggestion he would have turned round and laughed in her face.
She go away after ten years’ companionship and quarrelling! Quarreling
when it is continuous and familiar endears just as much as anything
else. She could not think of it. It must be a bit of bravado to frighten
him and make him give in on the subject they had disagreed upon. Women
were bad enough; but they were not so bad, not so heartless as this. So
Mr. Tremenheere considered that the wisest thing he could do was to show
the impatience, but not the uneasiness he felt, and to rush off to the
office, where he ought to have been some time ago, but for the
disagreement which had brought matters all at once and unexpectedly to a
crisis so terrible.
“I am aware that you have plenty of time to talk,” he said, “but I have
not. I am off to the office. You have detained me too long already with
this ridiculous discussion. Why should we have these continual
misunderstandings? I advise you to put folly out of your head, and try
to find some way by which we can get on like other people. I shall be
back at seven to-night.”
And he turned round and looked at her. Surely at least she would show
some natural feeling now. But she did not. She bent her head a little
and said, “Very well, good morning,” and went on with her knitting. Good
morning! Good heavens! What did she mean by that “good morning!” Was it
anxiety! Was it determination? He would rather have seen her eyes, and
then he might have known what she meant. But he would not resign the
superior position he had assumed by waiting to see what her eyes meant.
He had to go, as he said, shutting the door with some energy behind him.
He stumbled over the children at the door, and, instead of stopping to
kiss them, as was his wont, pushed the little things away, who were all
done up in their winter gear, great coats and furs.
“Is this a day to take the children out? Go back to the nursery at
once,” he said, not stopping to hear what the nurse, indignant, said
about Missis. Missis! what was she that she must argue about everything,
instead of taking her husband’s opinion like other people?--when of
course he must know best; he a man of the world. But Mr. Tremenheere
went to the office that day with a heavy heart. He had “shot an arrow
into the air,” and he did not know where he should find that inadvertent
missile. And all without meaning it! meaning nothing more than to
frighten her; to show her what terrors might be if she did not mind what
she was about--to warn her of possibilities which perhaps had never
dawned upon her before.
Mrs. Tremenheere, however, was much more startled by her husband’s
suggestion than she allowed to appear; but scarcely in the way a wife
might be supposed to be startled. It was not the fear of lost love or
any sentimental disturbance which was in her mind. There are wives, and
even some whose married life is not particularly harmonious, to whom
such words would be as the rending asunder of heaven and earth; but this
lady was not one of them. She did not feel the soil crumbling under her
feet or the skies dividing over her head because her husband threw out
the suggestion, that probably they might be better apart. She was not
wounded in this profound and poignant way, but she was startled by the
sudden introduction to her of a new idea, a something previously
unthought of which was evidently worthy of thought. And perhaps she was
a little piqued and slightly stung in her pride that the idea had not
originated with herself. Even the most philosophical woman, she who has
least care to preserve the often humiliating privileges of sex, has a
kind of prejudice in favor of all such suggestions originating with
herself. That her husband should be able calmly to contemplate a
separation did not throw her into hysterics or into despair, but yet she
should have liked to have been the first to suggest the separation.
When, however, she had got over this she was seriously struck by the new
idea. Separation! it meant a great deal which Mrs. Tremenheere had never
considered before, and which she began to consider with the seriousness
which became a very important matter. Living separate was easy enough to
friends who perhaps might be better friends apart than if thrown
continually together. It was nothing very dreadful even for members of
the same family. Brothers and sisters separated continually, yet
remained brotherly and sisterly all their lives; but a man and
wife,--this was something totally different, involving a very great deal
more. A separation of this sort is seldom considered in the reflective
and calm spirit in which Mrs. Tremenheere regarded it. Usually it is
decided upon in mere heat of passion, or under the sting of some
intolerable wrong--and only when the misery of the two compelled to live
together has become past bearing. All this was very different from her
sentiments; she sat very still going on with her knitting, her needles
perhaps moving a little more quickly than usual, and her eyes very
intent upon what she was doing, until at last she dropped her work on
her lap, letting fall the ball of wool with which she was knitting, and
which a playful kitten from the hearthrug immediately sprang upon. The
kitten thought her mistress had done it on purpose, and that this was an
invitation to play, and purred loudly to show her satisfaction, arching
her back and looking up into Mrs. Tremenheere’s abstracted face as she
put her foot upon the ball. It was a pretty Persian kitten with a long
sweeping tail, and the room was very pretty, with harmonious furniture
and fine water-color drawings, a carefully selected collection, for both
husband and wife prided themselves on knowing something about art. The
chair upon which Mrs. Tremenheere sat was an elegant Chippendale, which
she preferred to the usual luxurious articles of the drawing-room. The
table by her side was spider-legged, and daintily carved in ebony. An
old Italian cabinet in the same wood, inlaid with silver, stood against
the wall behind. Careful thought and taste, and some amount of culture,
showed in every part of the room. A bright fire blazed, throwing
pleasant lights about, sparkling in the glasses of the old Venice
chandelier, and doing its best to neutralize the effects of the fog
without. When Mrs. Tremenheere dropped her knitting in her lap she
raised her head with a sigh and turned her eyes to the window, as it is
so natural to do when one is in trouble. She was not young; but she was
a handsome woman, with clear high features, blue eyes, and abundant
hair--not fat, though that is the usual epithet to apply to a woman of
forty, which was her age, but tall and of an imposing presence. And she
was very well dressed in a dark velvet gown, which threw up her
fairness, with old-fashioned ornaments such as betrayed the same
prevailing taste as that which was apparent in the room. She was so
entirely in keeping with the place that it may be supposed the idea of
leaving it was not agreeable to her. But even this was not how the
matter appeared at the present moment to Mrs. Tremenheere. She had not
yet come so far as to think of leaving her home, or of any of the
material consequences to follow, but was only startled into serious
consideration of the idea and of what it meant, and if it really would
be “best,” as her husband had said.
She was asking herself this question when the nurse and children burst
into the room in full walking array, as when Mr. Tremenheere had turned
them back--every ribbon on nurse’s bonnet (and there were a great many),
and every hair on her head, though they were less abundant, was bridling
with indignation. The little girl had her finger in her mouth, and was
whimpering in sympathy. The boy, more indifferent, received imaginary
balls upon the short hoop-stick which he held like a cricket-bat, and
let the woman talk with masculine composure.
“Please ma’am, master-has-turned-us-back,” said nurse, running all her
words into one. “It’s-a-fog-and-we-ain’t-to-go-out-in-a-fog; and a deal
of exercise the dear children will get in London if we don’t never go
out in fogs. I said as it was you, but he said as it was me, and gave
’em a push which it isn’t like a gentleman,” said the nurse out of
breath; while little Vera, stamping her little foot, cried, “Naughty
papa!”
“And master is as unreasonable as unreasonable, as well you knows,
ma’am, though you might’nt say it,” nurse added, before she could be
stopped.
Mrs. Tremenheere colored high, and when she flushed the color remained,
as she was well aware, on the ridge of her delicate high nose much
longer than was becoming or agreeable, which made her still more angry.
“You are very impertinent to speak of your master so,” she said. “Take
the children’s things off at once, and send them to me; and Vera, if you
whimper you shall have a punishment. Go directly. I am very much
displeased.”
“It ain’t us, ma’am, that you’ve occasion to be displeased with,” nurse
began. “It’s Mr. ----”
“Do you wish me to send you away at an hour’s notice?” said Mrs.
Tremenheere in a low voice, hastily rising from her chair and putting
down the knitting with some impatience on the table, as she dismissed
the party peremptorily. Was this the end of it all? She had meant well,
as well as ever woman meant, or so at least she thought; but this was
the end. A servant who ventured to appeal to her knowledge of her
husband’s unreasonableness--a child who felt itself justified in saying
“Naughty papa.” Was this what she had done, betraying herself and
betraying him, bringing down the credit and good reputation which she
was bound to preserve? Then indeed he was right, and it would be best
for them to part.
She had, however, little time to pursue these reflections, for soon
after the door again opened, and the little pair came back, Vera in a
little velvet frock like her mother’s, with the hair cut square on her
forehead and falling behind upon her shoulders, leading the way,--Eddy
behind, still with the hoop-stick of which he made an imaginary
cricket-bat. Vera had a lapful of dolls in her pinafore--dolls without
noses, without arms, with feet twisted off, with necks wrung, with hair
torn from their heads, but only the dearer for all their misfortunes, as
Othello was “for the dangers he had known.” Vera tripped in light as a
little fairy, her pretty hair streaming over her shoulders. She was one
of those born actors who (up to the age of ten or so) are always
consciously playing some _rôle_ or other, and to-day her part was that
of an anxious mother taking care of her offspring. The little creature
took no notice of her own mother, who sat gazing at her with many
thoughts in her heart, but seating herself on the other side of the
fireplace began to arrange her family. She put her dolls round her like
a class at school, setting them up to sit with their miserable legs
thrust out on all the stools she could find, and then began to address
them with busy gravity--now pulling a dress straight, now arranging a
wig of tow. The busy little human thing among all these wooden
counterfeits of herself was as curious a sight as one could wish to see.
How she managed them, pulling this one roughly about, coaxing another,
according to their character! and indeed there were to the child’s
lively imagination distinct traces of character in the very attitude of
these ungainly babes.
“Try and sit up like a lady,” she said, taking up unceremoniously one of
her collected family by the head and setting it down again with a shake,
“is that how a lady sits? If you are all good and don’t make a noise,
nor spoil your pinnies, I will tell you a story. Oh you disagreeable
little fright, why can’t you hold your toes straight? Now listen!” Vera
held up a small finger in the air to enforce attention. “There was once
a little girl, and she was sometimes naughty just like you, and she had
a great many little children belonging to her, and one that was called
Rose, and one that was called Violet, and one that was called Lily, just
the same names as you have; ain’t it strange? And this little girl had a
mamma, the same as you have, but she had a papa too, and you never had a
papa. You hold your tongue, you naughty Rose. You want to know what a
papa is like--you all want to know? Well, a papa is a very funny thing.
Sometimes he is good and gives you new dolls, but I do not like any new
dolls, the nicest that could be got, so much as I love you, you dear old
dirty naughty ones; so be quiet and don’t interfere ever any more. But
then a papa is sometimes cross. He is very funny to look at, and doesn’t
wear frocks like us; and some of them have beards, great hairy things
like your muff stuck on to your chin, and when they kiss you it pricks.
But that is not all. Now you shall hear about the little girl in the
story. Once she met her papa when she was just going out for a walk, and
her nurse was going to take her to the Baker Street Bazaar, and she was
so happy; and what do you think this naughty, naughty, cross, unkind
papa did?----”
“Vera, what are you talking about?”
“I was not talking, mamma; I was only telling Rose and Violet and the
rest, a story. I often tell them stories--like what you used to tell
me--that begin--‘There was once a little girl.’ I never liked to hear
about that little girl,” said Vera, shaking her head; “she was always
doing silly things, and I knew she was me.”
“Vera, it is very naughty either to your dolls, or any one, to talk so
of your papa.”
“My papa!” said Vera with well-feigned surprise. “I was only talking of
the little girl’s papa.”
But here the boy, who had been silent, interposed with masculine
reproof, “What stupids girls are with their dolls! You might come and
bowl for me,” said Eddy, who was still playing imaginary cricket.
Vera threw all her dolls into a heap in a corner and went with
light-hearted fickleness; while the mother sat by and went on with her
thoughts.
[Illustration]