Lady Conyngham, who was one of the most beautiful and fashionable women
in London, came to spend a week with my mother. I knew from different
little things that had been said she had some great trouble with her
husband, but of course I did not know in the least what it was about.
As a rule, my mother sent me away on some pretext or other when they had
their long conversations; on this particular day she forgot me. When
Lady Conyngham began to talk I was behind my mother's chair with a book
of fairy tales. The first thing that aroused my attention was a sob from
Lady Conyngham and my mother saying to her:
"It is quite useless, you know, Isabel, to struggle against the
inevitable."
"It is very well for you, Beatrice, to talk in that fashion, you who
have never had a trouble in your own life; now, have you?"
"No," replied my beautiful mother, "not a real trouble, thank Heaven,"
and she clasped her white hands in gratitude.
"Then you cannot judge. You mean well, I know, when you advise me to be
patient; but, Beatrice, suppose it were your husband, what should you
do?"
"I should do just what I am advising you to do; I should be patient,
Isabel."
"You would. If Sir Roland neglected you, slighted you, treated you with
indifference, harder to bear than hate, if he persisted in thrusting the
presence of your rivals on you, what should you do?"
"Do you mean to ask me, really and truly, what I should do in that
case?" asked my dear mother. "Oh, Isabel, I can soon tell you that; I
should die."
"Die--nonsense!" cried Lady Conyngham. "What is the use of dying?--the
very thing they want. I will not die;" but my mother had laid her fair
head back on the velvet pillow, and her eyes lingered on the clear blue
sky. Was she looking for the angels who must have heard her voice?
"I am not as strong as you, Isabel," she said, gently, "and I love Sir
Roland with my whole heart."
"I loved my husband with my whole heart," sobbed the beautiful woman,
"and I have done nothing in this world to deserve what I have suffered.
I loved him with a pure, great affection--what became of it? Three days
after we were married I saw him myself patting one of the maids--a
good-looking one, you may be sure--on the cheek."
"Perhaps he meant no harm," said my mother, consolingly; "you know that
gentlemen do not attach so much importance as we do to these little
trifles."
"You try, Beatrice, how you would like it; you have been married ten
years, and even at this date you would not like Sir Roland to do such a
thing?"
"I am sure I should not; but then, you know, there are men and men. Sir
Roland is graver in character than Lord Conyngham. What would mean much
from one, means little from the other."
So, with sweet, wise words, she strove to console and comfort this poor
lady, who had evidently been stricken to the heart in some way or
another. I often thought of my mother's words, "I should die," long
after Lady Conyngham had made some kind of reconciliation with her
husband, and had gone back to him. I thought of my mother's face, as she
leaned back to watch the sky, crying out, "I should die."
I knew that I ought not to have sat still; my conscience reproached me
very much; but when I did get up to go away mamma did not notice me.
From that time it was wonderful how much I thought of "husbands." They
were to me the most mysterious people in the world--a race quite apart
from other men. When they spoke of any one as being Mrs. or Lady S----'s
husband, to me he became a wicked man at once. Some were good; some bad.
Some seemed to trust their wives; others to be rather frightened than
otherwise at them. I studied intently all the different varieties of
husbands. I heard my father laugh often, and say:
"Bless the child, how intently she looks and listens."
He little knew that I was trying to find out for myself, and by my
mother's wit, which were good husbands and which were bad. I did not
like to address any questions to my parents on the subject, lest they
should wonder why the subject interested me.
Once, when I was with my mother--we were walking up and down the picture
gallery--I did venture to ask her:
"Mamma, what makes husbands bad? Why do they make their wives cry?"
How my beautiful mother looked at me. There were laughter, fun and pain
in her eyes altogether.
"What makes my darling ask such a question?" she replied. "I am very
surprised: it is such a strange question for my Laura to ask! I hope all
husbands are good."
"No, not all," I hastened to answer; "Lady Conyngham's was not--I heard
her say so."
"I am sorry you heard it--you must not repeat it; you are much too young
to talk about husbands, Laura."
Of course I did not mention then again--equally of course I did not
think less of this mysterious kind of beings.
My beautiful mother was very happy with her husband, Sir Roland--she
loved him exceedingly, and he was devoted to her. The other ladies said
he spoiled her, he was so attentive, so devoted, so kind. I have met
with every variety of species which puzzled my childish mind, but none
so perfect as he was then.
"You do not know what trouble means, dear Lady Tayne." "With a husband
like yours, life is all sunshine." "You have been spoiled with
kindness!"
All these exclamations I used to hear, until I became quite sure that my
father was the best husband in the world.
On my tenth birthday my father would have a large ball, and he insisted
that I should be present at it. My mother half hesitated, but he
insisted; so, thanks to him, I have one perfectly happy memory. I
thought far more of my beautiful mother than myself. I stood in the
hall, watching her as she came down the great staircase, great waves of
shining silk and trailing laces making her train, diamonds gleaming in
her golden hair, her white neck and arms bare; so tall, slender and
stately, like the picture of some lovely young queen. Papa and I stood
together watching her.
"Let me kiss her first!" I cried, running to her.
"Mind the lace and diamonds, Laura," he cried.
"Never mind either, my darling," she said laughingly. "One kiss from you
is worth more than all."
Sir Roland kissed her and stood looking at her with admiring eyes.
"Do you know, Beatrice," he said, "that you grow younger and more
beautiful? It is dead swindle! I shall be a gray-bearded old man by the
time you have grown quite young again."
My sweet mother! she evidently enjoyed his praise; she touched his face
with her pretty hand.
"Old or young, Roland," she said, lovingly, "my heart will never change
in its great love for you."
They did not know how intensely I appreciated this little scene.
"Here is a good husband," I said to myself, like the impertinent little
critic I was; "this is not like Lady Conyngham's husband!"--the truth
being that I could never get that unfortunate man quite out of my mind.
That night, certainly the very happiest of my life, my father danced
with me. Heaven help me! I can remember my pride as I stood by the tall,
stalwart figure, just able with the tips of my fingers to touch his arm.
Mamma danced with me, too, and my happiness was complete. I watched all
the ladies there, young and old; there was not one so fair as my mother.
Closing my eyes, so tired of this world's sunlight, I see her again as I
saw her that night, queen of the brilliant throng, the fairest woman
present. I see her with her loving heart full of emotion kissing my
father. I see her in the ballroom, the most graceful figure present.
I remember how every half-hour she came to speak to me and see if I were
happy, and once, when she thought I was warm and tired, she took my hand
and led me into the beautiful cool conservatory, where we sat and talked
until I had grown cool again. I see her talking with queenly grace and
laughing eyes, no one forgotten or neglected, partners found for the
least attractive girls, while the sunshine of her presence was
everywhere. She led a cotillion. I remember seeing her stand waiting the
signal, the very type of grace and beauty.
Oh, my darling, if I were with you! As I saw her then I never saw her
more.
I was present the next morning when my father and mother discussed the
ball.
"How well you looked, Beatrice," said my father.
"How well I felt," she replied. "I am quite sure, Roland, that I enjoy
dancing far better now than I did before I was married. I should like
dancing parties a little oftener; they are much more amusing than your
solemn dinner parties."
But, ah me! the dancing feet were soon to be stilled; all the rest of
that summer there was something mysterious--every one was so solicitous
about my mother--they seemed to think of nothing but her health. She was
gay and charming herself, laughing at the fuss, anxiety and care. Sir
Roland was devoted to her; he never left her. She took no more rides now
on her favorite Sir Tristam, my father drove her carefully in the
carriage; there were no more balls or parties; "extreme quiet and
repose" seemed to be the keynote. Mamma was always "resting."
"She cannot want rest," I exclaimed, "when she does nothing to tire her!
Oh, let me go to her!" for some foolish person had started a theory that
I tired her. I who worshiped her, who would have kept silence for a year
rather than have disturbed her for one moment! I appealed to Sir Roland,
and he consulted her; the result was that I was permitted to steal into
her boudoir, and, to my childish mind, it seemed that during those days
my mother's heart and mine grew together.