Husbands and Wives

Front matter

HUSBANDS AND WIVES. EY EMMA JANE WORBOISE, Author of " Canonbury Holt" " C hrystabel" "Nobly Bom** " Giey and Gold" &v.s &c, " Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or Lends with the remover to remove : O no ; it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, altho' his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, th^o' rosy lips and cheeks, Within his bending sickle's compass come ; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. Cut bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd." SilAICtSFEARE. %a\\baix : JAMES CLARKE & CO., 13, FLEET STREET. HODDER & STOUGHTON, 27, PATERNOSTER ROW.

I8:3. Contents. Chapter Page I. — THE WIDOW WESTBURY .... I II. — "AN' YE SALL WALK IN SILK ATTIRE" . I 0 III. — MRS. WESTBURY TALKS " LIKE A MOTHER" . 19 IV. THEODORA 28 V. — COMING HOME 38 VI. — HAWTHORN FARM 47 VII. — A MATRON'S EXPERIENCES . . . .56 VIII. — MISS PHIPSON ASKS A FAVOUR ... 65 IX. — MORE CRUMPLED ROSE-LEAVES . . -74 X. " I AM SHAMED THROUGH ALL MY NATURE TO HAVE LOVED SO SLIGHT A THING " . 84 XI. — AT KENNINGTON 93 XII. — "LET US TALK IT OVER" . . . 102 XIII. — A "TREACLE MOON " Ill XIV. — KITTY PUTS HER SHOULDER TO THE WHEEL 1 2 I XV. — "BE STRONG, JOHN" '. . . . .130 XVI. — ELEANOR GOES MONEY-HUNTING . . 1 39 XVII. — IN EXTREMITY 149 XVIII. — FIVE O'CLOCK TEA 159 XIX. — HOME-SICK 171 XX. — AT HOME .179 XXI. — JOHN POTTER'S FRIEND . . . . 1S7 Contents. IV Cbart t Page xxn. — eleaxor's two friends . . • J97 xxin. — a literary soiree 207 XXIV. — "LOA'ED ONCE" 2l6 xxv. — daisy 2 25 xxvi. — an old bachelor . . . .235 xxvti. — gone to russia 244 xxviii. — the two mammas . . . -253 xxix. — "avhat is it to be a christian ?" . . 260 xxx. — the shabby man 270 xxxi. — a new creature 2/8 xxxii. — "what is the matter?" . . . 287 xxxiii. bernard locks the librara' dooi'. . . 297 xxxia'. — the avhite house .... 306 xxxa'. — by the sad sea avaates . . . . 3 i 6 xxxat. — the proposed pic-nic . . . • 325 xxxa'ii.

" that avhich i feared has come uton me" 33+ xxxviii. — in the monks' aisle .... 344 xxxix. — " tiie god of glory thundereth " . 354 xl. — after the storai .... 364 xli. — torquay or ventnor . . . -37+ xlii. — kitty's avooing 3s3 xliii. — john potter speaks faithfully . . 392 xliv. — gone into exile 402 xlv. — mentone .412 xl vi. — " does he forget ? " . . . . 42 i xlvii. — reconciled 430 xlviii. — john potter's investment . . .459 xlix.— theodora's guest 449 l. — fading aavay 455 li. — saturday night

Chapter I. The Widow

WESTBURY7. It was almost the close of the Southbourne season, and already the gaily-dressed crowds on the pier and on the esplanade had thinned visibly; day after day familiar faces were missed, fewer and fewer greetings were interchanged, elegant costumes had lost all their freshness ; the October wind, though it might be bracing, was uncomfortably cold, and the daylight had to be supplemented by gaslight long before the fashionable dinner-hour. The " Philharmonic Society " had announced its final concert ; the price of apartments was slowly coming down to its usual winter minimum, and many of the bathing-machines had already rethed into private life. And yet a goodly sprinkling of visitors remained ; the brass band still performed twice a week ; the Grand Hotel pretended to be as full and as busy as ever, though many vacant places at the lable-d'hole, and the long list of departures, seemed to contradict the statement.

Certainly the goings-out were largely in excess of the comings-in, and it was generally understood that the season, which had been a long and brilliant one, approached its termination. " I really think it is time we went back to town. Everybody of consequence is going, if not gone," said Mrs. Westbury to her companions, two well-dressed young ladies, who were drinking tea with her in one of the best drawing-rooms of the Grand Hotel. " How long have we been here ? " "Just five weeks," said Eleanor Phipson, shortly, as if not caring to be disturbed from her reverie, and she went on balancing her spoon on the edge cf her tea-cup, and gazing out abstractedly on the moonlit sea. To judge from her looks, her thoughts were not of the pleasantest. By-and-by, as might have been expected, down came the teaspoon clattering, and Mrs. Westbury gave a start that partly spilled the contents of her own cup.

" My dear Eleanor," she expostulated, " I wish you would consider people's nerves. Besides, it is not quite well-bred, you know, to make those abrupt, unpleasant noises." Eleanor did not reply, but she looked impatient, and drank the remainder of her tea at one draught, thereby scalding her throat without relieving her temper. The other girl, who had not spoken, glanced anxiously at her friend, and then at Mrs. Westbury, who was soon as placid and beaming as ever. Mrs. Westbury was a widow, tolerably rich, tolerably handsome, and extremely " well preserved." She was also supposed to be very well connected, and she moved in fashionable circles. She enjoyed excellent health, she was always in good spirits, and she dressed in the best taste, so that she might have passed for forty-five, while she was in reality ten years older.

She was particularly fond of the society of young people, to whom she was invariably kind and indulgent, and it was whispered that some of the "best matches" of her set were of her making. She had no children of her own, but she had satisfactorily married her husband's only daughter some years before, though report affirmed that Adelaide West bury had refused to profit by her stepmother's scheming, and had chosen for herself. However this might be, she was Mrs. Kingscote, and Mrs. Westbury, being free from even the shadow of maternal responsibilities, was both able and willing to devote herself to the establishment of such young ladies as she might deem worthy of her notice. " But I am no match-maker, my dear," she said one day to her intimate friend, to whom she had been recount ing recent successes.

" If there is anything that I am not, it is that. Match-making I despise as coarse and vulgar ; but when I see how matters can be arranged between two young people, I think it is my duty to give what help I can. They manage these things so much better in France ; the science of matrimony is not under stood, or rather, I should say, it is very much misunder stood, in England." It was Mrs. Westbury's custom to spend a few weeks every autumn at Southbourne — then, as now, a fashionable water ing-place — and to bring with her, as guests, two young un married and generally unengaged ladies, whom she chose from the circle of her acquaintances, and to whom she gave, as she considered, every possible advantage. A more worldly-minded, earthly-souled woman than the widow Westbury never drew breath, and yet, by a strange but too common delusion, she believed herself to be truly religious — that is, decorously religious, for she did not approve of anything approaching to fervour or earnestness, which she called " excitement."

She never drove her own horses, nor gave dinner-parties on Sunday. She opened her purse freely to certain well-accredited religious societies, and she never turned a deaf ear to her clergyman's appeals — -for cash. She was not High Church, for that was too pronounced ; nor Low Church, for that was vulgar ; nor yet Broad Church, for that gave her too much to think about. She was simply an orthodox old-fashioned Church woman — I quote her own words — and she protested mildly against Saturday evening operas, and objected to card parties in Lent. I am quite sure that the widow Westbury accounted herself as one of the most estimable and con sistent of Christian gentlewomen. So she went on her way rejoicing, dressing well, and living well, and keeping up a thoroughly well-appointed establishment.

She was never strict with young folks, and she catered liberally for their amusement. She was also very generous to these, her temporary charges — generous undoubtedly, yet slightly wanting in that fine delicacy which is so indispensable to the exercise of true generosity. Indeed, if one must speak the truth, Mrs. West bury was just a little coarse both in mind and in manner, and with the best intentions, to her own exceeding amazement, sometimes offended and repelled the very persons whom she was most anxiously striving to propitiate. Still, with all her faults, Mrs. Westbury was immensely popular I with young people of both sexes, and with many persons of mature age likewise, for she was undeniably kind-hearted, easy-tempered, an indulgent chaperone, and never so happy as when making presents, and planning agreeable surprises.

She was always ready to do anyone a good turn, provided it did not interfere too seriously with her own comfort, and she would go very much out of her way for her own espe cial favourites. Royalty itself could scarcely have been received with greater enthusiasm than was the widow West bury by the good people of Southbourne, when she made her annual appearance among them ; for she spent her money freely, never disputed charges, never checked her bills, never complained of impositions, and showered fees and gratuities ungrudgingly on all about her when she went away. This year she had brought down with her two young ladies, to whom Southbourne paid the just meed of admira tion. The elder girl was supposed to be a beauty, the younger one was voted to be a sweet little thing. They were not at all related, though they were fast friends, and had once been schoolfellows.

As a rule, Mrs. Westbury professed to " introduce " only pretty girls, but she had the good sense to perceive that a plain face with a piquante expression and undoubted powers of conversation, often -obtained larger suffrages than mere inanimate doll-beauty without the charm of intellect ; so now she had chosen as her temporary companions, a belle and a bel-esprit — at least that was what people chose to say about them. Eleanor Phipson was three-and-twentv, sufficiently hand some to please a not too fastidious taste, and sufficiently ■clever to carry on a conversation with ease, and even upon occasion with brilliancy. She was one of a large and needy family — a family of the class so sadly common in these ambitious and competitive days, when one-half of the world seems to live only to outshine the other half.

Mr. Phipson was something in the City — few people precisely knew what — but he had something to do with companies ; he had a good income, but he lived not only up to it but rather beyond it, and so was always being pushed for money, while every year his expenditure more and more .exceeded his resources. Mrs. Phipson had been dead for some years, and the eldest daughter — not Eleanor, for she was the second — was nominally at the head of her father's establishment r but the house kept itself, and the servants did pretty much just what they chose, and nothing more ; for Fanny Phip son was indolent, easy-tempered, ignorant, and unobser vant. Her cook might have given away — and I dare say did give away, for mistresses like Miss Phipson always chance on the worst possible servants — a dozen pounds of butchers' meat and half a sack of potatoes weekly, to say nothing of groceries, and the residue of sundries, and she be none the wiser.

So the Phipson household was in a state of chronic muddle; and muddle, as we know, produces " the minimum of comfort at the maximum of expense." There were five Miss Phipsons ; the eldest twenty-five, the youngest in her eighteenth year ; they were all alike in their talent for spending money ; and they all, from Fanny down to little Kitty — as her sisters persisted in calling her — scorned the idea of an allowance, and pre ferred to run bills for all their finery ; which said bills Fanny laid before " papa " at certain intervals. Those were not pleasant days for Fanny, nor for any of the girls, when "papa" audited the half-yearly accounts, and stormed, and raved, and grumbled, and threatened — the crown of all threats — to marry again ! Nothing appalled the hearts of these Phipson girls like this vision of a stern, arbitrary stepmother, armed with all conjugal and matronly rights, coming to rule over them, and to curtail their liberties.

These girls went to fashionable and expensive schools, and they learned to dance, to enter a room properly, to sit or lounge gracefully, and to play and sing tolerably, for amateurs. And of course they were taught grammar and geography, and sundry scraps of ologies, and they read histories, ancient and modern, which they forgot as fast as possible ; but of all those things in which a woman, whose sphere is home, should be instructed, they were profoundly ignorant. They could dress elegantly, if not economi cally ; they knew the exact limits to which they might carry an innocent flirtation — if there be such a thing, which I doubt ; — and they were careful never to outrage the proprieties. They had - beaux many and admirers many, but not one good, honest lover among them. And' though I cannot commend the danglers and male flirts who amused themselves with the Phipson girls, and " used " Mr. Phipson's house very much as if it were a club-house or private hotel, I must say I do not blame the young men, who were always being expected to propose, and who never did.

Mr. Phipson began to be afraid that his five handsome and expensive daughters were going to be left upon his hands ; he felt that he would give anything to see any one of them married. Perhaps it was too well known that the Misses Phipson had been brought up in habits of careless extravagance, that they were far more ornamental than useful, and, worst of all, that being as they were, they were not likely to receive anything in the shape of a marriage-portion, nor to inherit even the smallest of for tunes. Of the sisters, Eleanor, though not the handsomest, was certainly the cleverest, the best-intentioned, and the most thoughtful. She was less shallow, less frivolous than the others. She was not indolent and nonchalant, as were Fanny and Florence, neither was she vain and pert, as were Jenny and Kitty ; and often, very often of late, she had reflected and asked herself how this careless, reckless, aimless sort of life would end ? for that end it would, in a very few years, perhaps months, she could not rationally doubt.

She talked to Fanny and to Flo, and they cried and told her she was a thorough wet blanket on their spirits ; and she spoke seriously to Jenny and Kitty, who laughed at her, and boasted of the splendid matches they meant to make. But Eleanor knew better. ThePhipsons were in bad odour, their chances of wedding honourably and happily were rapidly diminishing ; no sensible man of any position would be likely to seek a wife among them. Even those who eagerly sought them as partners in the dance, or as companions at a Crystal Palace concert or flower-show, or a Richmond dinner, never dreamed of securing any one of them as a partner for life. I have noticed that very foolish men are sometimes very wise and very prudent in this matter, while the men of higher order, from whom one would expect greater things, too often commit the greatest and, of course, the most irretrievable mistakes in matrimony. «' Tall love the short, Sensible love the stupid, Everywhere pair dark with fair, All on account of Cupid."

Pity that it should be so, which I do not quite believe. At any rate, I am sure Cupid gets a great deal of blame that is not fairly his ; he is not accountable for half the mischief laid to his charge, poor, foolish, little, heathen simpleton ! If people would only consider the sacredncss of marriage as a divinely-appointed institution ; if they would only contemplate the momentous issues of a single but irretrievable step, surely there would not be so much misery, so much sin, as there is in the world, through this very necessary ordinance of " holy matrimony," which God knows is sometimes as unholy, as unhallowed — in His sight, at least — as are other conditions, which the world justly brands with shame. When the midsummer accounts came in, and with them the usual dissatisfaction, Mr. Phipson had said to his two elder daughters, " This cannot go on !

Some of you must marry ! You must manage very badly not to bring any of your admirers to the point. It is of no use being too fastidious, for I tell you plainly we cannot go on in this way much longer. If one of you married, she might help the others, or at least one or two of the others, to an eligible settlement. I cannot think how it is ! Plain girls, mere dowdies, girls who never go into society, get husbands, and are happily established, while you are still in the market, and seem as far as ever from gaining your «nds. I tell you some of you must marry, and that soon. I am heartily ashamed of my five spinster-daughters." It was, therefore, greatly to Eleanor's content when shortly afterwards, Mrs. Westbury, with whom she had lately become intimate, asked her to spend a few weeks with her and Margaret Deane at Southbourne.

Flo wished she had been invited, and was rather sulky because she was not. Kitty and Jenny openly grumbled at being excluded; both of them declaring that Fanny and Eleanor had had their day, and ought to retire in favour of their younger and more attractive sisters. The Misses Phipson, I am sorry to say, were in the habit of speaking their minds to each other more freely than was agreeable Husbands arid Wives. They were not amiable in private life, though they " deared" each other in company with the most delightful propriety. But what could be expected in a home where Christianity was never thought of, and where common sense was continually ignored ? "And I am determined to come back engaged!" said Eleanor to Fanny, the night before her departure. " Papa is right : it really is time that there was a wedding in the family.

Now, at Southbourne there will be new chances, and I mean to make the very best of them. It is my duty to marry, and to marry well." " I am sure I have no objection," replied Fanny, languidly. " I wish we could all marry well, for pa's grumbling, and the tradespeople's grumbling, and Jenny s and Kitty's grumbling because they cannot do as they wish, is almost more than I can bear. I am sure the expenses are enormous — tradesmen are so extortionate, and servants are such cheats — but then, what can I do ? I did propose going abroad to retrench, but papa would not hear of it. He has been very disagreeable lately, and I really shall be quite frightened, Nellie, if after all you do come back disengaged, for there will be the bills for your new dresses ; he will not mind them if you only come back to be married.

How horrid it is to be poor ! " " And yet we should scarcely be called poor. I know lots of people who have not half our income, and who seem quite comfortable and rich. The fact is, we spend more than we have, and that causes unpleasantness. If we could only make up our mind to do without things, we might get on. When I am married, I will not go in debt, Fan ; 1 am resolved on that." " Nonsense ; every married woman runs into debt," was Fanny's cool reply. " What's the use of being married if you cannot have all you want, and do as you please ? Your husband pays your bills, you know." " But suppose he has not money enough to pay them ? Or suppose he won't ?" " Nonsense ; there is no won't in the case ; a man must pay his wife's debts, my dear, — yes, even debts contracted before marriage.

And as for not having the money, you must be careful, Eleanor, not to marry a poor man. But I think I can trust you." " Yes, you may trust me," said Eleanor, sadly ; " but it must be pleasant to feel that you may marry the person you like, instead of the person who has most money." " Pray do not talk so foolishly. I thought we had done with that nonsense," said Fanny, quite sternly for her. " I hope you never think of that presumptuous young man." "Really, Fanny," returned Eleanor, with spirit, "I do not quite see the presumption. He offered me two hun dred a year, and I have nothing, literally nothing, except a lot of fine dresses which are not paid for. It seems to me that I should have had the best of the bargain, — besides — besides — well ! liking him !" " No girl in the present state of society ought to like a man with only £ t.oo a year."

" Then I wish the present state of society would alter, Fan ! I wouldn't say it to any one but you, but sometimes I feel so tired — so tired of it all. I feel as if there must be something better than thi? life we lead — I might say, the life we waste ! And I wish I had accepted John Thornton ; it would have been so nice to work together, and do things together — for I really don't see why the man should do all the work, and the woman do all the spending." " Eleanor ! if you are going to Southbourne in that absurd, and, I may say, vulgar spirit, you had better stop at home. It is a pity Mrs. Westbury did not ask me or Flo. I am quite willing that you should have the chances, but if you are going to fling them away, why it is a pity you should have them. John Thornton, indeed ! Cold mutton, washing done at home, mending old stockings, nine children, and no nursemaid ; would that suit you, do you think ?"

" No," said Eleanor, desperately ; " say no more, Fanny. I'll do my duty." And next morning, with plenty of pretty dresses and tasteful costumes in her trunks, and with a very little money in her purse, Eleanor met Mrs. Westbury and Mar garet Deane at the railway station, and went with them to Southbourne to do her dutv.

Chapter II

"AN' YE SALL W7ALK IN SILK ATTIRE." And Eleanor Phipson did " her duty," according to her lights ; for when the time came to think about leaving Southbourne, it rested with herself to accept or to refuse a certain Mr. Esdaile, with whom, for the last few weeks, she had been in constant intercourse. Mr. Esdaile was rich, middle-aged, and a childless widower. He had only just made up his mind to marry again, and he had no sooner resolved on this important step than Miss Phipson crossed his path, and made an impression which further acquaintance confirmed. He, as well as Mrs. Westbury and her charges, was at the Grand Hotel ; so that they naturally met at all hours of the day, and it soon became a settled thing that in all their walks, drives, and excursions, he should accompany them. And presently people coupled his name with Eleanor's, for that it was the tall, stately Eleanor, and not the little dove-eyed maiden, Margaret, whom he had chosen, became speedily apparent.

And Eleanor received his attentions with a certain re serve, which he naturally mistook for maiden modesty. She was far too prudent to give him undue encourage ment, since a man of his temperament — proud, sensitive. with high and chivalric ideas about women — would be more likely to be repelled than gratified by the smallest compromise of feminine dignity. Little thought Richard Esdaile how, from the very first hour of his introduction to these ladies, and even before — for the " visitors' book" had told them his name on the evening of their arrival — it had been designed that he and Eleanor Phipson should henceforth travel the road of life together. Nevertheless he had been cautious ; he had watched the girl, and he had made no hasty advances. Richard Esdaile was the soul of honour, and he would have thought it shame to trifle in the smallest degree with a girl's happiness.

That easy familiarity which men nowadays so often assume towards women with whom they are for the first time associated, and whom they may never encounter again, he especially disliked, and his manner was not only guarded but respectful. Pie flattered himself that he entirely con cealed his sentiments, that he paid no more attention to Eleanor than to Margaret, whom he liked and esteemed, but whom he never dreamed of asking to be his wife. She was a good little thing, he said ; any man might count himself happy to win and wear so sweet a flower. But, in spite of his reticence, and before he would even acknow ledge it to himself, his heart was irrevocably given to Eleanor Phipson. Still he had not yet proposed, though he now considered himself as a man of honour fully compromised. He had paid attentions which, in his estimation, could have but one meaning, and she had received them so graciously7, though so modestly, that he felt little, if any, doubt of his acceptance.

He had, as he imagined, been most discreet and prudent ; the days of youthful passion were over, but he was quite capable of a very deep and steadfast attachment ; his first marriage had not been happy, for he had been too hasty; now, as he told himself, having attained the mature age of forty-three, he was not likely to make a second blunder. He had seen Eleanor daily, and some times hourly, for weeks, and under various circumstances which tried her temper and her prudence, and she had always conducted herself satisfactorily, and borne her part with great dignity. Though she had given him but slight encouragement, she had by no means repelled him, and that went for much, he thought, with a woman of her stamp. It was quite time that he spoke openly and to the purpose; he did not wish to linger at Southborne; his health, which had given way under an attack of fever in the spring, was completely re-established, and he knew from what Mrs. Westbury had said that she and her young ladies would be returning to town ere long.

He would make the venture. Within a few hours Eleanor must become all the world to him, or be put away entirely and for ever; for now that it came to the point, he knew his own heart, and he felt that no middle course of friendship was possible. He loved Eleanor, and she must be his, or they must not meet again for years, if ever. That afternoon Mr. Esdaile had ridden out by himself, and he had not taken his place at the dinner-table. But when the ladies returned to their own sitting-room, Mrs. Westbury had found a note from him, asking her permission to see Miss Eleanor Phipson alone, on the following morning, at eleven o'clock. He would not return till late that evening, but he begged that he might find an answer in his own room awaiting him. Mrs. Westbury was at once in her own element, and she penned a graciously worded little note on perfumed paper, granting her full consent to the proposed interview, and she congratulated herself and Eleanor, that without any scheming or double dealing, the desired result was to all intents and purposes attained.

But for the first time since the commencement of their friendship, Eleanor was cross and out of sorts. Hence her abrupt tone and manner, so unlike her usual style ; hence her nervous handling of that unlucky teaspoon, which procured her the gentlest of reprimands. " Well ! it will be all settled to-morrow, and then, Elea nor, my dear, the best thing we can do is to pack up and go home," said Mrs. Westbury, presently. " Let me think — it is October now ; I should say your marriage will take place before Christmas ; there is nothing to wait for." "You forget, ma'am, that at this present moment I am disengaged." " Of course, nominally ! But not in point of fact ; you cannot doubt Mr. Esdaile's intention — the note is equiva lent to a declaration ! " " I know it is, but — but — suppose I do not — cannot say, yes ?