MR. PLOWDEN GOES A-WOOING
Mr. Plowden was not a suitor to let the grass grow under his feet. As
he once took the trouble to explain to Florence, he considered that
there was nothing like boldness in wooing, and he acted up to his
convictions. Possessing no more delicacy of feeling than a
bull-elephant, and as much consideration for the lady as the elephant
has for the lily it tramples underfoot, he, figuratively speaking,
charged at Eva every time he saw her. He laid wait for her round
corners, and asked her to marry him; he dropped in on her at odd hours,
and insisted upon her marrying him. It was quite useless for her to
say, “No, no, no,” or to appeal to his better feelings or compassion,
for he had none. He simply would not listen to her; but encouraged
thereto by the moral support which he received from Florence, he
crushed the poor girl with his amorous eloquence.
It was a merry chase that Florence sat and watched with a dark smile on
her scornful lip. In vain did the poor white doe dash along at her best
speed; the great black hound was ever at her flank, and each time she
turned came bounding at her throat. This idea of a chase, and a hound,
and a doe took such a strong possession of Florence’s saturnine
imagination, that she actually made a drawing of it, for she was a
clever artist, and not without training, throwing, by a few strokes of
her pencil, a perfect likeness of Mr. Plowden into the fierce features
of the hound. The doe she drew with Eva’s dark eyes, and when she had
done them there was such agony in their tortured gaze that she could
not bear to look at them, and tore her picture up.
One day Florence came in, and found her sister weeping.
“Well, Eva, what is it now?” she asked, contemptuously.
“Mr. Plowden,” sobbed Eva.
“Oh, Mr. Plowden again! Well, my dear, if you will be so beautiful, and
encourage men, you must take the consequences.”
“I never encouraged Mr. Plowden.”
“Nonsense, Eva! you will not get me to believe that. If you did not
encourage him, he would not go on making love to you. Gentlemen are not
so fond of being snubbed.”
“Mr. Plowden is not a gentleman,” exclaimed Eva.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because a gentleman would not persecute one as he does. He will not
take No for an answer, and to-day he kissed my hand. I tried to get it
away from him, but I could not. Oh, I hate him!”
“I tell you what it is, Eva; I have no patience with you and your
fancies. Mr. Plowden is a very respectable man; he is a clergyman, and
well off, altogether quite the sort of man to marry. Ah, Ernest—I am
sick of Ernest! If he wanted to marry you, he should not go shooting
people, and then running off to South Africa. Don’t you be so silly as
to pin your faith to a boy like that. He was all very well to flirt
with while he was here; now he has made a fool of himself and gone, and
there is an end of him.”
“But, Florence, I love Ernest. I think I love him more dearly every
day, and I detest Mr. Plowden.”
“Very likely. I don’t ask you to love Mr. Plowden; I ask you to marry
him. What have love and marriage got to do with each other, I should
like to know? If people were always to marry the people they loved,
things would soon get into a pretty mess. Look here, Eva, as you know I
do not often obtrude myself or my own interests, but I think that I
have a right to be considered a little in this matter. You have now got
an opportunity of making a home for both of us. There is nothing
against Mr. Plowden. Why should you not marry him as well as anybody
else? Of course, if you choose to sacrifice your own ultimate happiness
and the comfort of us both to a silly whim, I cannot prevent you; you
are your own mistress. Only I beg you to disabuse your mind of the idea
that you could not be happy with Mr. Plowden, because you happen to
fancy yourself in love with Ernest. Why, in six months you will have
forgotten all about him.”
“But I don’t want to forget about him.”
“I daresay not. That is your abominable egotism again. But whether you
want to or not, you will. In a year or two, when you have your own
interests and your children.”
“Florence, you may talk till midnight if you like; but, once and for
all, I will not marry Mr. Plowden;” and she swept out of the room in
her stately way.
Florence laughed softly to herself as she said after her:
“Oh yes, you will, Eva. I shall be pinning a bride’s veil on to that
proud head of yours before you are six months older, my dear.”
Florence was quite right; it was only a question of time and cunningly
applied pressure. Eva yielded at last.
But there is no need for us to follow the hateful story through its
various stages. If by chance any of the readers of this history are
curious about them, let them go and study from the life. Such cases
exist around them, and, so far as the victims are concerned, there is a
painful monotony in the development of their details and their
conclusion.
And so it came to pass that one afternoon in the early summer,
Florence, coming in from walking, found Mr. Plowden and her sister
together in the little drawing-room. The latter was very pale, and
shrinking with scared eyes and trembling limbs up against the
mantelpiece, near which she was standing. The former, looking big and
vulgar, was standing over her and trying to take her hand.
“Congratulate me, Miss Florence,” he said. “Eva has promised to be
mine.”
“Has she?” said Florence, coldly. “How glad you must be that Mr. Jones
is out of the way!”
It was not a kind speech, but the fact was there were few people in the
world for whom Florence had such a complete contempt, or whom she
regarded with such intense dislike, as she did Mr. Plowden. The mere
presence of the man irritated her beyond all bearing. He was an
instrument suited to her purposes, so she used him; but she could find
it in her heart to regret that the instrument was not more pleasant to
handle.
Mr. Plowden turned pale at her taunt, and even in the midst of her fear
and misery Eva smiled, and thought to herself that it was lucky for her
hateful lover that somebody else was “out of the way.”
Poor Eva!
“Poor Eva!” you think to yourself, my reader. “There was nothing poor
about her. She was weak; she was wicked and contemptible.”
O, pause awhile before you say so! Remember that circumstances were
against her; remember that the ideas of duty and of gain drilled into
her breast and the breasts of her ancestresses from generation to
generation, and fated as often as not to prove more of a bane than a
blessing, were against her; remember that her sister’s ever-present
influence overshadowed her, and that her suitor’s vulgar vitality
crushed her to the ground.
“Yet with it all she was weak,” you say. Well, she _was_ weak, as weak
as you must expect women to be after centuries of custom have bred
weakness into their very nature. Why are women weak? Because men have
made them so. Because the law that was framed by men, and the public
opinion which it has been their privilege to direct, have from age to
age drilled into women the belief—in which, it must be admitted, they
for the most part readily acquiesce—that they are chattels, to be owned
and played with, existing for the male pleasure and passion. Because
men have systematically stunted their mental growth and denied them
their natural rights, and that equality which is theirs. Weak!—women
have become weak because weakness is the passport to the favour of our
sex. They have become foolish because education has been withheld from
them and ability discouraged; they have become frivolous because
frivolity has been declared to be the natural mission of woman. There
is no male simpleton who does not like to find a bigger simpleton than
he is to lord it over. Truly, the triumph of the stronger sex has been
complete, for it has even succeeded in enlisting its victims in its
service. The great instruments in the suppression of women, and in
their retention at their present level, are women themselves. And yet
let us be for a minute just. Which is the superior of the two—the woman
or the man? In strength we have the advantage, but in intellect she is
almost our equal, if only we will give her fair-play. And in purity, in
tenderness, in long-suffering, in fidelity, in all the Christian
virtues, which is the superior in these things? O man, whoever you are,
think of your mother and your sisters; think of her who nursed you in
sickness, of her who stood by you in trouble when all others would have
none of you, and then answer. Poor Eva! Yes, give her all your pity,
but, if you can, purge it of your contempt. It requires that a woman
should possess a mind of unusual robustness to stand out against
circumstances such as hemmed her in, and this she did not possess.
Nature, which had showered physical gifts upon her with such a lavish
hand, had not given her that most useful of all gifts, the power of
self-defence. She was made to yield; but this was her only fault, an
absolutely fatal one. For the rest she was pure as the mountain snow,
and with a heart of gold. Herself incapable of deceit, it never
occurred to her to imagine it in others. She never suspected that
Florence could have a motive in her advocacy of Mr. Plowden’s cause. On
the contrary, she was possessed to the full with that idea of duty and
self-sacrifice which in some women amounts almost to madness. The
notion so cleverly started by Florence, that she was bound to take this
opportunity of giving her sister a home and the permanent protection of
a brother-in-law, had taken a firm hold of her mind. As for the cruel
wrong and injustice which her marriage with Mr. Plowden would work to
Ernest, strange as it may seem, as is usual in such cases it never
occurred to her to consider the matter in that light. She knew what her
own sufferings were and always must be; she thought that she would
rather die than be false to Ernest; but somehow she never looked at the
other side of the picture, never considered the matter from Ernest’s
point of view. After the true womanly fashion she was prepared to throw
herself under her Juggernaut called Duty, and let her inner life, the
life of her heart, be crushed out of her; but she never thought of the
other life which was welded with her own, and which must be crushed
too. How curious it is that when women talk so much of their duties
they often think so little of the higher duty which they owe to the
unlucky man whose love they have won, and whom they cherish in their
misguided hearts! The only feasible explanation of the mystery—outside
of that of innate selfishness—is, that one of the ideas which has been
persistently drilled into the female breast is that men have not any
real feelings. It is vaguely supposed that they will “get over it.”
However this may be, when a woman decides to do violence to her natural
feelings, and because of pressure or profit contracts herself into an
unholy marriage, the lover whom she deserts is generally the last
person to be considered. Poor wretch! he will, no doubt, “get over it.”
Fortunately, many do.