The Heavenly Twins by Madame Sarah Grand

M >> Madame Sarah Grand >> The Heavenly Twins

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62

"He has done that for me himself," she thought. "The boy respects me; I
shall wear his flowers. They are beautiful too," she added, holding them
off at arm's length to admire them--"the most beautiful of them all."

Almost immediately after she returned to the drawing room Mr. Price was
shown in. He was the person of all others at that moment in Malta whom she
would most have liked to see could she have chosen, and her face
brightened at once when he entered.

"I have been dining with your husband's regiment to-night," he explained,
"and I found that he could not come back for you to take you to the ball,
and that therefore you would have to go alone; and so I ventured to come
myself and offer you my escort."

"Ah, how good you are," Evadne cried, feeling fully for the first time how
much she had in heart been dreading the ordeal of having perhaps to enter
the ball room alone.

The old gentleman surveyed her some seconds in silence.

"That's original," he said at last, with several nods, approvingly. "And
that is a glorious piece of colour you have in your hand."

"Is it not?" she said, "More beautiful, I think, than all my jewels."

"Yes," he agreed. "The flowers are the finishing touch."

The ball had begun when Evadne arrived, and the first person she
encountered was the Grand Duke, who begged for a dance and took her to the
ball room. A dance was just over, however, when they entered; the great
room was pretty clear, and the prince led her toward the further end where
their hostess was sitting. There also was Colonel Colquhoun and and some
other men, with Mrs. Guthrie Brimston. He had forgotten Evadne for the
moment, and she was so transformed by the beautiful lines of her dress
that he had looked at her hard and admiringly before he recognized her.

"Who's the lady with the Grand Duke?" Major Livingston exclaimed.

"Someone with a figure, by Jove!" said old Lord Groome.

"Loyal Egypt herself!" said Mrs. Guthrie Brimston, always apt at analogy.

"Why--it's Evadne," said Colonel Colquhoun.

"Didn't know his own wife, by Jove!" Lord Groome exclaimed.

"Well, I hope I may be pardoned at that distance," rejoined Colonel
Colquhoun, confused.

"Royal Egypt is more audacious than ever," Mrs. Guthrie Brimston observed.
"This is a new departure. The reign of ideas is over, I fancy, and a
season of social success has begun."

Evadne danced till daylight, unconscious of the sensation she had made,
and rose next morning fresh for the usual occupations of the day; but her
success of the night before had so enhanced her value in Colonel
Colquhoun's estimation that he was inclined to be effusive. He returned to
lunch, and hung about her the whole afternoon, much to her inconvenience,
because he had not been included in her arrangements for some months now,
and she could not easily alter them all at once just to humour a whim of
his. But wherefore the whim? A very little reflection explained it. Looks
and tones, and words of her partners of the previous night, not heeded at
the time, recurred to her now, and made her thoughtful. But she could not
feel flattered, for it was obviously not her whom Colonel Colquhoun was
worshipping, it was success; and the perception of this truth suggested a
possible parallel which made her shudder. It was a terrible glimpse of
what might have been, what certainly _would_ have been, had not the
dear Lord vouchsafed her the precious knowledge which had preserved her
from the ultimate degradation and the insult which such an endeavour as
that of a woman she had in her mind, to win back a wandering husband,
would have resulted in. "_I_ do not care," was her happy thought when
she began to see less of Colonel Colquhoun; "but a wife would feel
differently, and it would have been just the same had I been his wife."

He was not surprised to find her submit to his extra attentions in silence
that afternoon, because that was her way, but he found her looking at him
once or twice with an expression of deep thought in her eyes which
provoked him at last to ask what it was all about. "I was thinking," she
answered, "of that painful incident in 'La Femme de Trente-ans' where
Julie so far forgot her self-respect as to try to re-awaken her husband's
admiration for her by displaying her superior accomplishments at the house
of that low woman Mme. de Sericy. You remember she made quite a sensation
by her singing: 'Et son mari, reveille par le role qu'elle venait de
jouer, voulut l'honorer d'une fantaiste, et la prit en gout, comme il eut
fait d'une actrice.' I was thinking, when she became aware of what she had
done, of the degradation of the position in which she had placed herself,
how natural it was that she should despise herself, cursing marriage which
had brought her to such a pass, and wishing herself dead."

Colonel Colquhoun became moody upon this: "My having stayed at home with
you this afternoon suggests a parallel, I suppose, after your success of
last night?" he inquired. "And you have been congratulating yourself all
day," he proceeded, summing up judicially, "upon having escaped the
degradation of being the wife _de facto_ of a man whose admiration
for you could cool--under any circumstances; and be revived again by a
vulgar success in society?"

She was silent, and he got up and walked out of the house. From where she
sat she saw him go, twirling his blond moustache with one hand, and
viciously flipping at the flowers as he passed with the stick he carried
in the other; a fine, soldier-like man in appearance certainly, and not
wanting in intelligence since he could comprehend her so exactly; but, oh,
how oppressive when in an admiring mood! This was her first feeling when
she got rid of him; but a better frame of mind supervened, and then she
suffered some mortification for having weakly allowed herself to be
betrayed into speaking so plainly. Yet it proved in the long run to have
been the kindest thing she could have done, for Colonel Colquhoun was
enlightened at last, and they were both the better for the understanding.

But the house seemed full of him still after he had gone that day, and she
therefore put on her things, and, hurrying out into the fresh air, walked
quickly to the house of a friend where she knew she would find a fresh
moral atmosphere also. She was soul sick and depressed. Life felt like the
end of a ball, all confusion, and every carriage up but her own; torn
gowns, worn countenances, spiteful remarks, ill-natures evident that were
wont to be concealed, disillusion generally, and headache threatening.
But, fortunately, she found a friend at home to whom she instinctively
went for a moral tonic. This was a new friend, Lady Clan, the widow of a
civil service official, who wintered all over the world as a rule, but
had passed that year at Malta. She was a cheery old lady, masculine in
appearance, but with a great, kind, womanly heart, full of sympathetic
insight--and a good friend to Evadne, whom she watched with fear as well
as with interest, doubting much what would come of all that was
unaccustomed about the girl. The sweet grave face and half shut eyes
appealed to her pathetically that afternoon in particular, as Evadne sat
silently beside her, busy with a piece of work she had brought. Lady Clan
thought her lips too firm; as she grew older, she feared her mouth would
harden in expression if she were not happy--and the old lady inwardly
prayed Heaven that she might be saved from that; prayed that little arms
might come to clasp her neck, and warm little lips shower kisses upon
_her_ lips to keep them soft and smiling, lest they settled into
stony coldness, and forgot the trick.

CHAPTER XIV.

Malta was enlivened that winter by a joke which Mrs. Guthrie Brimston made
without intending it.

Mrs. Malcomson had written a book. She was thirty years of age, and had
been married to a military man for ten, and in that time she had seen some
things which had made a painful impression upon her, and suggested ideas
that were only to be got rid of by publishing them. Ideas cease to belong
to an author as soon as they are made public; if they are new at all
somebody else appropriates them; and if they are old, as alas! most of
them must be at this period of the world's progress, the mistaken
reproducer is relieved of the horrid responsibility by kindly critics
promptly. Blessed is the man who never flatters himself with the delusion
that he can do anything original; for, verily, he shall not be
disappointed.

Mrs. Malcomson made no such vain pretension. She was quite clever enough
to know her own limitations exactly. Out of everyday experiences everyday
thoughts had come to her, and when she began to embody such thoughts in
words she did not suppose that their everyday character would be altered
by the process. She had not met any of those perfect beings who inhabit
the realms of ideal prose fiction, and make no mistakes but such as are
necessary to keep the story going; nor any of the terrible demons, without
a redeeming characteristic, who haunt the dim confines of the same
territory for purposes invariably malign; and it never occurred to her to
pretend that she had. She was a simple artist, educated in the life-school
of the world, and desiring above everything to be honest--a naturalist, in
fact, with positive ideas of right and wrong, and incapable of the
confusion of mind or laxity of conscience which denies, on the one hand,
that wrong may be pleasant in the doing, or claims, on the other, with
equal untruth, that because it is pleasant it must be, if not exactly
right, at all events, excusable. So she endeavoured to represent things as
she saw them, things real, not imaginary; and when her characters spoke
they talked of the interests which were daily discussed in her presence,
and expressed themselves as human beings do. She was too independent to be
conventional, and it was therefore inevitable that she should bring both
yelp and bray upon herself, and be much misunderstood. When asked why she
had written the book, she answered candidly "For my own benefit, of
course," which caused a perfect howl of disapprobation, for, if that were
her object, there could be no doubt that she would attain it, as the book
had been a success from the first; but as people had hastily concluded
that she was setting up for a social reformer and would fail, they were
naturally disgusted. They had been prepared to call the supposed attempt
great presumption on her part; but when they found that she had merely her
own interests in view, and had not let their moral welfare cost her a
thought, they said she was not right-minded; whereupon she observed; "I
don't mind having my morals attacked; but I should object to be pulled up
for my grammar"--meaning that she was sure of her morals, but was half
afraid that her grammar might be shaky. As is inevitable, however, under
such circumstances, this obvious interpretation was rejected, and the most
uncharitable construction put upon her words. It was said, among other
things, that she evidently could not be moral at heart, whatever her
conduct might be, because she made mention of immorality in her book. Her
manner of mentioning the subject was not taken into consideration, because
such sheep cannot consider; they can only criticise. The next thing they
did, therefore, was to take out the incident in the book which was most
likely to damage her reputation, and declare that it was autobiographical.
There was one man who knew exactly when the thing had occurred, who the
characters were, and all about it.

"Nunc dimittis!" said Mrs. Malcomson when she heard the story; "for the
same thing has been said of the author of any book of consequence that has
ever appeared." And naturally she was somewhat puffed up. But it remained
for Mrs. Guthrie Brimston to cap the criticisms. Her smouldering
antagonism to Mrs. Malcomson was kept alight by a strong suspicion she had
that Mrs. Malcomson was wont to ridicule her; and as a matter of fact the
best jokes of that winter _were_ made by Mrs. Malcomson at the
expense of Mrs. Guthrie Brimston. It was not likely, therefore, that the
latter would spare Mrs. Malcomson if she ever had an opportunity of
crushing her, and she watched and waited long for a chance, until at last
one night, at a dinner party, she thought the auspicious moment had
arrived, and hastened to take advantage of it; but, unfortunately for her,
she chose a weapon she was unaccustomed to handle, and in her awkwardness
she injured herself.

Mr Price was giving the dinner, and Mrs. Malcomson was not there, but the
Colquhouns and Sillengers were, and other friends of hers, kindly
disposed, cultivated people, who spoke well of her, and were all agreed in
their praise of her work.

Mrs. Guthrie Brimston stiffened as she listened to their remarks, but held
her peace for a time, with thin lips compressed, and rising ire apparent.

"I cannot class the book," said Colonel Sillenger. "It does not claim to
be fact exactly, and yet it is not fiction."

"Not a novel, but a novelty," Major Guthrie Brimston put in, clasping his
hands on his breast, twiddling his thumbs, and setting his head on one
side, the "business" with which he usually accompanied one of his
facetious sallies.

"What I admire most about Mrs. Malcomson is her courage," said Mr. Price.
"She ignores no fact of life which may be usefully noticed and commented
upon, but gives each in its natural order without affectation. Do you not
agree with me?" he asked, turning to Mrs. Guthrie Brimston who was
standing beside him.

Her nostrils flapped. "If you mean to say that you _like_ Mrs.
Malcomson's book, I do _not_ agree with you," she answered decidedly;
"I consider it _improper_, simply!"

There was a momentary silence, such as sometimes precedes a burst of
applause at a theatre; and then there was laughter! Such an objection from
such a quarter was considered too funny, and when it became known, there
was quite a run upon the book; for Mrs. Guthrie Brimston's stories were
familiar to the members of all the messes, naval and military, in and
about the island, not to mention the club men, and the curiosity to know
what she did consider an objectionable form of impropriety in narrative
made Mrs. Malcomson's fortune.

From that time forward, however, Mrs. Guthrie Brimston's influence was
perceptibly upon the wane. Even Colonel Colquhoun wearied of her--to
Evadne's great regret. For Mrs. Guthrie Brimston's vulgarity and
coarseness of mind were always balanced by her undoubted propriety of
conduct, and her faults were altogether preferable to the exceeding polish
and refinement which covered the absolutely corrupt life of a new
acquaintance Colonel Colquhoun had made at this time, a Mrs. Drinkworthy,
who would not have lingered alone with him anywhere in public, but dressed
sumptuously at his expense the whole season. The different estimation in
which he held the two ladies and his respect for Evadne herself was
emphasised by the fact that he never brought Mrs. Drinkworthy to the
Colquhoun House, nor encouraged Evadne to associate with her as he had
always encouraged her to associate with Mrs. Guthrie Brimston. And there
can be no doubt that the latter's influence was restraining, for, after
his allegiance to her relaxed, Evadne noticed new changes for the worse in
him, and regretted them all the more because she feared that a chance
remark of her own had had something to do with weaning him from the
Guthrie Brimstons. She had been having tea with him there one day, and on
their way home Colonel Colquhoun said something to her about the Guthrie
Brimstons baying been unusually amusing.

"They only seemed unusually talkative to me," she answered; "but I always
come away from their house depressed, and with a very low estimate of
human nature generally. I feel that their mockery is essentially 'the fume
of little minds'; and when they are particularly facetious at other
people's expense, I leave them with the pleasing certainty that our own
peculiarities will be put under the microscope as soon as we are out of
earshot, a species of inquisition from which no human being can escape
with dignity."

Colonel Colquhoun reflected upon this. His horror of being made to appear
ridiculous may have hitherto blinded him to the possibility of such a
thing--there is no knowing; but, at all events, it was from that time
forward that he began to go less to the Guthrie Brimstons.

He was just at the age, however, when the manners of certain men begin to
deteriorate, especially in domestic life. Their capacity for pleasure has
been lessened by abuse, and they have to excite it with stimulants. They
become less careful in their appearance, are not particular in their
choice of words before the ladies of their own families, nor nice in their
manners at table. If not already married, they look about for something
young and docile on which to inflict their ill-humours, and expect to have
their maladies of mind and body tenderly cared for in return for such
ecstatic joy as young wives find in the sober certainties of board and
lodging. Should they be married already, however, Heaven be good to their
wives, for they will have no comfort upon earth!

But doubtless in the good time coming, all estimable wives will subscribe
to keep up asylums to which their husbands can be quietly removed for
treatment, so soon after the honeymoon as their manners show signs of
deterioration. When they begin to be greedy, forget to say "please,"
"thank you," and "I beg your pardon;" show no consideration for anyone's
comfort but their own, no natural affection, and lose control of their
tempers; the best thing that can be done for them, and the kindest, is to
place them under proper restraint at once. They cannot be treated at home.
Opposition irritates them, and humouring such dreadful propensities
submissively only confirms them.

The deterioration of Colonel Colquhoun had certainly been delayed by the
arrangement which in honour bound him to treat Evadne as a young lady, and
not as a wife; but that it should set in eventually, was inevitable. When
it did begin, however, it was less in manner, for the same reason that had
delayed it, than in pursuits, and therefore Evadne's position was not
affected by it, and she continued to have a kindly, affectionate feeling
for him, and to pity him still without bitterness.

He began to stay out late at night, at this time, and she would hear him
occasionally in the small hours of the early morning returning from a
bachelor dinner party, or a big guest-night at mess, reeking, doubtless,
of tobacco and stimulants. Verily, Ouida knows what she is writing about
when she invariably adds "essences" to the toilet of her dissipated men.
Evadne would wake with a start in the gray of the dawn sometimes, and
hearing Colonel Colquhoun pass her door with unsteady step on his way to
his own room, would shudder to think what his wife must have suffered. And
it was not as if the sacrifice of herself would have made any difference
to him either. If she could have done any good in that way she might have
tried; but his habits were formed, and they were the outcome of his
nature. Nothing would have changed him, and the longer she lived with him,
the more reason she had to be convinced of this, and to be sure that her
decision had been a right and wise one.

But Colonel Colquhoun did not agree with her. He cherished the vain
delusion that, although her influence as a young lady whom he admired and
respected had not availed to elevate him, her presence as a wife, whose
feelings he certainly would not have felt bound to consider, and whose
opinion he would not have cared a rap for, would have made all the
difference.

They drifted into a discussion of this subject one hot afternoon when he
happened to find Evadne idling for a wonder with a fan at an open window.

"You might have made anything you liked of me had you adopted a different
course," he said. He had been carousing the night before, and was now
mistaking nausea and depression for a naturally good disposition perverted
by ill-treatment.

"No," she answered gently. "I do not flatter myself that I should have
succeeded where Mrs. Beston and half a dozen other ladies I could name
even here, in a little place like Malta, all more lovable, estimable, and
stronger in womanly attributes generally than I am, have failed. Colonel
Beston is always with your particular clique--and she is very unhappy."

"She makes herself miserable then," said Colonel Colquhoun, the natural
man reappearing as the _malaise_ passed off or was forgotten, "What
business is it of hers where he goes or what he does so long as he is nice
to her when he _is_ at home?"

"Just reverse the position, and consider what Colonel Beston's feelings
would be if she took to amusing herself as he does, and maintained that he
had no business to interfere with her private pursuits; would he be
satisfied so long as she was 'nice' to him at home?" Evadne asked.

Colonel Colquhoun's countenance lowered. "That is nonsense," he said.
"Women are different. They must behave themselves."

Evadne smiled. "I am beginning to know that phrase," she said. "It puzzled
me at first, because it is neither reason nor argument, but merely an
assertion somewhat in the nature of a command, and equally applicable to
either sex, if the other chose to use it. But I know that what you have
just said with regard to Mrs. Beston having no occasion to make herself
miserable is your true feeling on the subject, and therefore I am
convinced that if I had 'adopted a different course,' it would not have
been to your advantage in any way, and it would certainly have been very
much to the reverse of mine. We are excellent friends as it is, because we
are quite independent of each other, but had it been otherwise--I shudder
to think of the hopeless misery of it."

Colquhoun was silent.

"There is no hope for me, then," he said at last, lamely. "I suppose the
truth of the matter is you never cared for me at all; you just thought you
would get married, and accepted me because I was the first person to
propose, and your friends considered me eligible. I think you are
cold-hearted, Evadne. I have watched you since you came out here, and I've
never seen you fancy any man, even for a moment."

Evadne flushed angrily. It is one thing to consider ethical questions in
relation to their bearing upon the future of the world at large, and
another to have it suggested that you have been under observation yourself
with a view to discovering if you found it possible to live up to your own
ideas. It was a fact, however, that no man attracted Evadne during this
period as Colonel Colquhoun himself had done. The shock of the discovery
which had destroyed her passion for him had caused a revulsion of feeling
great enough to subdue all further possibilities of passion for years to
come, and even if she had been free to marry she would not have done so.
All the energy of her nature had flashed from her heart to her brain in a
moment, and every instinct of her womanhood was held in check by the
superior power of intellect. Since the day of the marriage ceremony she
had been a child in her pleasures, and only mature in the capacity for
thought. Her senses had been stunned, and still slept heavily; but there
remained to her a vivid recollection of the entrancing period which had
followed their first awakening, and so she answered Colonel Colquhoun's
last remark decidedly.

"You are mistaken," she said, "if you imagine that I did not care for you--
that I was merely marrying you for the sake of marrying, and would have
been quite as content with anyone else whom my friends might have
considered eligible. My mother was very much disappointed because I did
not accept an offer I had before I saw you from a man who was certainly
'eligible' in every way--I think you said my father had told you of it? I
could not care for _him_; but I think my passion for _you_ was
blinder and more headlong, if anything, than is usually the case in very
young girls. It possessed me from the moment I saw you in church that
first time. You pleased my eyes as no other man has ever done, and I was
only too glad to take it for granted that your career and your character
were all that they ought to have been. But of course I did not love you,
for passion, you know, is only the introduction to love. It is a flame
that may be blown out at any time by a difference of opinion, and mine
went out the moment I learnt that your past had been objectionable. I
really care more for you now than I did in the days when I was 'in love'
with you. For you have been very good to me--very kind in every possible
way. So much so, indeed, that I have more than once felt the keenest
regret--I have wished that there was no barrier between us."

"There is no hope for me, then?" he again suggested, but with hope in his
heart as he spoke.

She shook her head sadly.