In spite of her happiness Carrie made a very tearful bride. The parting
from her father was exquisitely painful to her, and not all Phil’s
endearments could at first bring a smile to her lips. For Sebastian had
told her that he could have nothing to do with her now, that their
parting was final. The only way in which Carrie could hear of how he
fared was by sending Peter to inquire of Patty, and Patty (a mature
spinster), while she inwardly exclaimed over the turn of Fortune’s wheel
which thus brought her former admirer again to her door, was fain to
invent messages which would reassure Carrie’s anxious heart.
‘Lor’! Mr. Peter,’ she would say, ‘’tis distressful to see the Doctor
now-a-days.—And how doth dear Miss Carrie (as was) do?’
‘Mrs. Meadowes has her health perfect,’ Peter would respond, ‘but is
ever fretting over the Doctor, so I had best make up some message from
you, and mayhap some evening you might step down to the Square yourself
and make her more easy in the mind about him?’
Patty, in spite of her years and her wisdom, would shake her head
coquettishly at this suggestion, and invent some message for Peter which
had no foundation in fact. ‘The Doctor is well, madam, and eats hearty;
was out the most part of the day at the hospital, and dined with his
friend Dr. Munro,’ Peter would announce. And on such fragments Carrie
had to appease her hungry heart.
Sebastian, poor man, had never been less inclined for social
intercourse; had never eaten his meals with so little ‘heartiness’; had
never visited the hospitals so seldom; but those two well-meaning
retainers thought it kinder to suppress the true facts of the case—and
perhaps they were right.
‘Never fear, Carrie; he will come round—parents always do; they can’t
do without us,’ Phil used to say. ‘I wish you knew all the disputes I’ve
had with my father!’ But Carrie said the cases were not quite similar,
she fancied, and refused to be comforted.
‘’Tis well I am so beautifully happy with you, Phil,’ she said one day,
‘for this trouble weighs so on my heart that had I any other ’twould
break in two.’
‘Oh, no fear!’ laughed Phil. They led a very gay life, these two
exceedingly irresponsible young people, and indeed, older heads were
nodded in wisdom, and prophecies were made that Carrie would have
trouble enough with her wild young husband. Philip seemed, for the
present at least, to have given up work of any kind. He meant to be in
Parliament some day, he told Carrie, meantime he would enjoy himself and
see the world. He was also letting Carrie see it, a process she much
enjoyed, and, in Phil’s company, entered into with all her heart, unlike
the lack-lustre young woman who had gone about with Lady Mallow the
preceding winter. Carrie was now introduced into far finer circles than
those of her worthy aunt. Her name figured in all the reports of what we
should in this vulgar age call ‘smart’ society—a fact which afforded
her a good deal of natural mundane satisfaction. ‘The beautiful Mrs.
Meadowes,’ ‘Handsome Mrs. Philip Meadowes,’ ‘That most charming lady,
Mrs. Meadowes’—these and similar descriptions of herself made Carrie
dimple with pleasure. But a woman in such a position, so young, so
beautiful, so unsophisticated, would, to defend herself aright, require
a beak and claws, whereas our gentle Carrie had not even a sharp tongue
wherewith to chastise her enemies. She entered society with no
protection but simplicity—a much vaunted armour which, alas for the
world, is in reality sadly vulnerable. Brought up as she had been almost
exclusively among men—and honest men into the bargain—Carrie was quite
ignorant of the wiles of her own sex, and scolded Philip heartily when
he ventured to warn her against them; while, for the sterner sex, she
entertained almost pathetic feelings of confidence and liking. The men
did not exist (in consequence) who could resist her, and this more than
any other cause at last opened Carrie’s eyes a little to the involutions
of the feminine character. Alas! too late; half the women in London were
jealous of her before Carrie was even distantly aware of it. She had
smilingly accepted flowers and attention from many a man before it
occurred to her that other women might be wanting them instead.
‘Just singe your wings, my dear butterfly,’ said Phil, ‘then you will
understand what the candle is.’
‘Philip, it must be from your father you take such base views of human
nature,’ said Carrie. ‘For certainly you have not lived long enough
yourself to learn such views. ’Tis not my fault that I am good-looking,
and I do not believe for a moment that other women dislike me for it.’
‘Wait—ah, just wait, Carrie. I agree with you that they do not dislike
you for it—_hate_ is the word.’
‘Phil, I am ashamed to hear my husband say such things,’ said Carrie,
though she laughed in spite of herself.
I have said that Carrie liked and trusted all men; but with one
exception—she could not abide the sight of Simon Prior.
‘I cannot say what it is, Phil,’ she said one day, ‘but to speak with
Mr. Prior doth turn me sick. Pray, my dearest, is he a great friend?
Could you not intimate to him that he visits my drawing-room too
frequently?’
Prior had certainly got into a strange habit of haunting the house in
St. James’ Square, considering how very lukewarm a reception he always
received there. Carrie was one of those fortunate women who find it
quite impossible to be anything except pleasant to every one. She would
sit, smiling and charming, beside Simon Prior, while all the time she
loathed the sound of his voice.
‘Do not be so pleasant to the man, Carrie,’ Phil suggested; and Carrie
in genuine amazement opened her blue eyes widely:—
‘Philip, I was most discourteous to him but yesterday! Twice he hinted
at his wish to accompany me on my airing, and each time I took no notice
of his remark.’
‘But you smiled all the time, and seemed merely not to have noticed the
hint, Carrie—instead of appearing purposely to ignore it.’
‘I tried my best; in honesty, Phil, I tried my best to be disagreeable,’
sighed Carrie, ‘so you must do it for me if I cannot manage it.’
Phil had no scruples. He waited for Prior to call again, and then set
about finding some matter to differ upon; but Prior himself brought
about the dispute finally.
‘I should like a word with you, Philip,’ he said, as he rose to say
good-bye, and Phil, with a quite perceptible shrug, led the way into the
library.
‘I wondered—not to beat about the bush, for frankness between friends
is a good thing—I wondered, in fact, Philip, if you could accommodate
me with a small loan—some £20, or perhaps less; I happen to be very
much pressed just now; I—in fact, ’twould be a great boon.’
‘No,’ said Phil curtly; ‘I fear I cannot oblige you.’
‘Oh, I am sure you can. Your father would advance me the money to-morrow
were he in town, and I look upon you as his representative,’ began
Prior.
‘Were I in the way of lending money, sir,’ said Phil with great
deliberation, ‘’twould be to another sort of man than you.’
‘Ha, ha—very good—the poor ever with us,’ said Prior uneasily; ‘but
indeed you make a mistake when you take me for a rich man. I am
constantly pressed for funds, as you see me to-day; you could scarcely
find a needier object for accommodation, you——’
‘I could easily find a better,’ said Phil.
‘Philip, you call my honour in question!’ cried Prior.
‘I would never trouble to do so,’ said Phil; ‘because I do not consider
that you have got any.’
For far less provocation men in those fighting days had risked their
precious lives, as Phil was well aware. He had calculated the chances of
having to fight with Prior, and his calculations were verified: Prior
had no intention of fighting; he had swallowed many an insult.
‘For your father’s sake, Philip, I will not go further into the
dispute,’ he said with the sorry attempt at dignity of a man who knows
himself in the wrong.
Philip walked to the door and flung it open.
‘Adieu, Mr. Simon Prior,’ he said with great mock ceremony. And Carrie
was not troubled with any more visits.