Part 6

I did not see them again till I had reached man’s estate, and then they came once more to my father’s house. But what a change had the years wrought! He was now a shaky, middle-aged man, with alternate intervals of boisterous merriment and ill-temper, and only the reminiscent suggestion of his old gallant bearing and good looks; while she was an absolute wreck of her former self. Her fair, plump features were now sallow and shrunk, her bright, gentle countenance told of nothing but sorrow, suffering, and anxiety; her full, elegant figure had become attenuated beyond recognition. The old regard of proud affection had given place to a haunted, restless look of fear, of expectancy of something terrible. Yes, a few years had transformed the gallant soldier into a confirmed drunkard and bully, and the poor wife into his abject slave.

It was a pitiful story. He had had a sunstroke in India—the original excuse of so many drunkards—and a craving for stimulant had succeeded. Stronger and stronger grew the craving, weaker and weaker the power of resistance, until the habit of drink became so strong that the case was quite a scandal. “Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,” was the official designation given to the offence for which he was cashiered from the army, and social ruin was the result. And down with the disgraced man went the wife and children. Society always generalises, and the stain of a name clings to the innocent bearers of it. Of course people pitied poor Mrs. Meek, but with such a husband who could visit her? So, with ruined career, with name disgraced, with shattered constitution, Captain Marshall Meek brought his family home to England, and by undue extravagance and gambling speedily exhausted the income his wife had brought him as dowry. His social disgrace seemed to have made him desperate—his weakness for drink certainly rendered him insensible to all the finer feelings of manhood, and he spared his wife no humiliation.

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She was the daughter of a proud and distinguished man, who had won his baronetcy by splendid services to the State, whose father and grandfather before him had won honourable reward from a grateful country. The men and women of her family were proud and spirited to an unusual degree, and when she went to them, socially and financially beggared, to ask assistance for her children, they answered her that she must separate herself from her drunken and disgraceful husband, and then they would see what could be done for her.

But Mrs. Meek was wife before everything; whatever her husband had done, however he might drag her and their children down, whatever he might make her suffer in body and spirit, she was still his wife, and as she had vowed at the altar to love, honour, and obey, so would she strive to fulfil her vows. Therefore pitying and forgiving those of her kinsfolk who had urged her to what she considered the breaking of the marriage vow, she gave up all hope of their assistance, and determined to try and eke out what little was left of her fortune as best she could. Her pride had been sadly humbled, but she still had a remnant of independence. She still hoped to redeem her husband’s reputation, and woo him from the injurious ways of drink.

It was at this period that I met again the hero and heroine who had so captivated my boyish fancy, and never shall I forget the shock of recognition. They seemed to have been transformed by some sort of metempsychosis-while-you-wait process. The Captain’s old buoyancy had given place to irritability pretending to be joviality—a miserable sham, practised exclusively for company. And this seemed to alarm his wife far more than his outbursts of drunken passion, for then she knew that the bully was uppermost, while the cunning of his pretended humour puzzled her, and kept her upon tenter-hooks, fearing what he might say or do.

It was a miserable life for her, poor thing. She, who had lived her youth in luxury, and her early married life in comfort and amid brilliant social surroundings, was now compelled to endure every degradation that genteel poverty and social vagabondage could inflict. They were very poor, yet her good-for-nothing husband insisted upon an outward show of gentility which he had not the grace to support. He would drink in private and in public, he would debase his manhood, and bully his long-suffering wife, but he would drain the very scanty family purse to preserve a pretence of social position. The children were growing up, but little were they heeded, except as servants and errand-boys. Education befitting the sons and daughters of an “officer and gentleman” was out of the question; all the cash that could be squeezed out of the domestic exchequer was appropriated by the Captain for his personal expenses, his clothes, and his drink. Poor Mrs. Meek had to find clothing for the boys and girls as best she might, just as she had to keep the household going. For herself, one or two black silk dresses which had seen better days served her through years of humiliation. She had lost the semblance of gentility, and only tried to make herself look a little smarter when her husband rated her for forgetting her position. Her position, indeed!

And she submitted to all this humiliation, she allowed herself and her children to be dragged down lower and lower, she offended beyond reconciliation the rich, proud relatives who could have helped her, because they expressed their just resentment against her husband and their indignation at her obstinate martyrdom, all simply for love of this man who was quite unworthy of it. She had never heard of Individualism; the thought of a woman having a free soul, with an independent life of her own to work out, had probably never entered her head. She was one of those women who think that the whole duty of woman is towards her husband, be he good or bad, tender or cruel, devoted or selfish. That he has broken his marriage vows does not relieve her of the obligation of hers—she must be faithful to the end. And so Mrs. Meek suppressed her independent womanhood for the sake of a worthless man. There was no question of clinging to an ideal of her girlhood, that was broken long since, and Mrs. Meek was not an idealising woman; she saw things as they were, but she thought it was her duty to try and soften their brutality. If there was little of the old love remaining, there was the old slavish devotion, and the submission of her individuality to his caprice. She retained the mediæval notion that the husband was the wife’s lord and master, and when misfortunes, albeit of his own making, came upon him and involved her, she considered that it was all the more obligatory for her to unself herself, so as to give him the more consideration. She had joined her lot to his for better or for worse, and, as she would not have thought of leaving him had it been better, she would not desert him when fortune was at its worst. Let him humiliate her as he would, she would be a martyr in the sacred cause of wifely devotion.

There are some women who must be martyrs at all cost, if not in earnest, then in make-believe. Generally there is more folly and egotism in their martyrdom than high-minded purpose, but sometimes there is a touch of the genuine angel. Now, I never met a more serious martyr than Mrs. Marshall Meek, and if there was a good deal of the fool about her self-sacrifice, there was something, too, of the angel—no ordinary woman could have been so absolutely without resentment with so much just cause. Whatever she suffered, and Heaven knows she must have suffered as few women in her station of life are called upon to suffer, never was she known to utter complaint. No indignity, no deprivation, could provoke her to reproach her husband; and when I have heard her sons and daughters grumble at their position, she would always chide them gently, and expect pity for their father’s misfortunes. For herself she sought none. God in His own good time would pity her, she would say, till then it was her duty to submit patiently.

But was this just either to herself or her children? For herself, it must rest with her own conscience whether she has made the best use of her life, debasing her soul to the service of a worthless man, be he husband a thousand times over. But for her children, has she not grossly abused her responsibilities? She has sacrificed them to a father who has squandered the most brilliant opportunities, and degraded all their lives. Had she agreed to the wishes of her relatives to separate judicially from her worthless husband, whose downward course she was powerless to stay, she might have restored her children to their proper social position, and secured to them all the advantages of education. But she allowed herself to become estranged from those who could have helped her, and to beg for alms from friends whose purses were of less capacity than their hearts. And, oh! the terrible struggles of her life, the humiliation, the injustice, the pity of it.

Then when the inevitable _delirium tremens_ cut off, in what should have been its prime, a life once so full of promise so grievously unfulfilled, it was all too late to repair the terrible mischief done. The children, who had been dragged up anyhow, lived anyhow, and were married anyhow to those who dragged them down still lower in the social scale. And their mother, the widowed martyr to her sense of wifely duty, ignored by proud and offended relatives, neglected by children whose gratitude she had never encouraged, and, weary of all, has hidden herself away in some obscure lodging to await, as patiently and submissively as she has lived, the coming of easeful death.

And there will always be women like this to soften men’s lives by their own self-submission; but, thank goodness, there be also women who know how to live their own lives, and to stimulate, as well as smooth, the lives of men.

_THE “AWFULLY JOLLY” GIRL_

Mabel Flirtington is still in the age of gigglehood, a period of life through which every well-regulated girl must pass. If a girl cannot enjoy a good giggle, there must be something very much the matter, she must be suffering severe personal affliction of some kind or another, or, may be, she is a changeling, or perchance the stars went wrong at her birth. A positively serious young girl is an anomaly; she cannot be tolerated. Youth is naturally joyous, and, if the girl be mother to the woman, what a depressing maturity will be that of the girl who cannot giggle. I say this because I have frequently heard _passée_ women and disagreeable men speak contemptuously of the “giggling girl,” and with great injustice. I reverence youth myself, and in this I imply no disrespect to old age, which, when it is delightful, is delightful indeed, though old people are not always companionable. Young people, on the contrary, have not had time to lose their illusions or to suffer all the ills that age is heir to. Nor, on the other hand, have they acquired the wisdom, charity, and experience of years; therefore they offer the charms of simplicity, frankness, and enthusiasm. Their companionship is a refreshment, and I am prepared to endorse all that the poets have written in eulogy of youth.

I have a firm faith in the poets; they anticipate all my noblest thoughts, and all my freshly perceived truths. So when Tom Moore long ago sang “There’s nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,” he merely expressed my present opinion. But one only fully realises the inestimable beauty and value of youth when one’s hair is getting thin on the top, one’s ruddy-brown beard is beginning to melt into grey, and one’s limbs do not move as actively as of yore. It is middle-age, not old-age, that really laments over lost youth. Old age has almost forgotten its charm, and only wants peace, quiet, and comfort; but middle age is still active enough to want to be younger. It is a beautiful thing to be young, and have all our responsibilities in embryo, with all the world before us, fair and full of hope, promise, and possibility. I think there is no more engaging sight than a pretty girl at her first ball, or a gallant youth in uniform for the first time. They are ready to conquer the world, and perhaps after all they only make a conquest of each other, but they are just as happy.

When I get into one of those melancholy moods to which lonely bachelors are occasionally liable, nothing so effectually restores me to my usual equanimity as a verbal rally with Mabel Flirtington. She is of that essentially British type of young lady that may be classified as the “awfully jolly” girl. I do not believe you would find a Mabel Flirtington of any other country in the world. She is indigenous to the British Isles, and the British Isles can boast no richer product than the “awfully jolly” girl.

Mabel Flirtington is an _ingénue_ of the most _fin-de-siècle_ order, one with a will of her own and a brain that is wide awake. Indeed, she is a natural product of the time that makes for individualism in both sexes. She is bored or amused with equal discrimination, and selects her own entertainment and occupation accordingly, just as she selects her own friends. She has a keen sense of humour and a power of sarcasm, and, as she is always on the alert for any fun, and ever ready to dare anything requiring pluck and strength, she is the admired of all youthful admirers. There is not an honest-hearted, clean-minded young man of Mabel’s acquaintance, or a girl that is worthy of a man’s respect, who will not without hesitation describe her as an “awfully jolly” girl, by which is meant all that is frank, and brave, and comradelike. She is a girl to command instant respect and admiration from all those capable of understanding her; but to the meaner-minded she will present no favourable view, for she will tread on their mental corns, so to speak. Her self-reliance will to them appear mere conceit, her ready repartee will sound like impertinence, and her fearlessness seem only swagger.

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For myself, I love to see Mabel among a number of young folk, to hear her asserting the profound opinions of eighteen, and to watch how her very attitude of independence lends persuasion to her illogical utterances. I enjoy her ingenuous way of playing the despot, and it is delightful to see how thoroughly she recognises her power, and how she revels in its exercise. Last year was her initial “season,” and yet, to see her at her first ball, to witness the experienced skill with which she played off her partners against each other, amusing herself by lighting little sparks of jealousy, and then discreetly fanning them into tiny flames sufficient to leave burning embers for the next occasion, one might have imagined she had been going to balls for years past, and had served a long apprenticeship in flirtation. Mabel adores dancing with all the enthusiasm of eighteen, but she is nothing if not candid, and she told one partner bluntly that she would rather sit down as he could not dance, and then she signalled to me, as an old friend, to go and rescue her. Mabel was certainly the most self-possessed _débutante_ I ever saw—the end-of-the-century _ingénue_ is never shy, mark you—and she made more harmless heart-havoc in a single evening than her good Aunt Gertrude had made in a lifetime.

The position of father confessor to an erratic young lady like Mabel is not a very difficult one, for her confessions are very innocent, although she sometimes thinks she is making terrible avowals, but they are at least exceedingly amusing. She flirts for pure fun and sport, there is no question of heart in it. Her heart she keeps for something more serious, though she does not know that—she is not yet awake to it, and I doubt if she thinks at all seriously of the possibilities of love and marriage. Certainly at the present time she has no desire to be married, although I know one or two goodly youths who entertain hopes of her. Not that she gives them any encouragement; on the contrary, she delights to tantalise them, and which of them, if any, will be the successful rival I scarcely think she quite knows herself, though one may guess. However, at present she only regards the tender passion from the point of view of entertainment, and as accessory to the more serious pursuits of riding, boating, tennis or dancing. These are the business of her life, and she will tire herself utterly in pursuing them. Flirting is merely a relaxation.

To see Mabel at her best, you must be with her up the river. You must see the dexterous manner in which she handles her canoe, or the graceful skill with which she propels her punt. An artist who should make his happy sketching-ground that particular part of the Thames where Mabel spends the summer months, and should persuade her to submit to being frequently sketched, might bring away a veritable wealth of pictorial material. He would have to be up very early in the morning to see her, in her dainty red bathing costume, take her matutinal dive from the landing stage opposite the cottage where she stays—though he had better not let her know he is within sight, for her swimming is the admiration of only very privileged connoisseurs.

Then he should see her paddling her canoe up stream, her red shirt and the crimson cushions making a brilliant note of colour against the dark green of the foliage on the banks. If he watch till she turns round the bend near the lock, he will see some canoeing of no amateurish kind, for those rapids make heavy demands on the pluck and skill of the fair canoeist. That is the place to sketch her, for it is a ready-made picture. Then let him see her, later in the morning, mounting her horse for a canter across country, with so sure a seat and such a command of the animal, one would not be surprised to see her flying over any five-barred gate. What a look of pride is on the face of the young cavalry officer who rides by her side; for not another fellow in the regiment ever rode out with a finer horsewoman, or a prettier girl to boot.

Then, again, what a picture she makes, as, flushed with her ride, she leaps from her saddle, and holding her habit with one hand, she strides up the garden walk, with her dogs bounding by her side and jumping for her caresses, for she loves animals as they love her. Could any painter wish for a more perfect type of pure, healthy girlhood? Perhaps, though, he will see more opportunities for his pencil when, clad in a loose-fitting silk shirt of old rose colour, and a white alpaca skirt, she is displaying all the supple grace of her figure on the tennis lawn. How active she is, how skilful and confident her play, how her face glows with pleasure and excitement, and with what cheery banter she keeps up the spirit of the game. While she is playing her personality dominates the lawn, for every bit of her vitality goes into what she is doing at the moment; while she works physically at the play, her merry little mind is finding vent in a quip to this player, a bit of playful sarcasm to another, or a repartee to some comment from the onlookers. No wonder that after tennis she may be seen lolling in a hammock, under shady trees, fast asleep. And how lovely she looks! Our friend the artist should come upon her there, and make a study for a Sleeping Beauty, for painter’s fancy has never yet done justice to the subject, and never will, until he paints the beautiful princess as a fair English girl, asleep in a hammock in a shady garden by the silver Thames.

But he must make haste with his sketch, for the sun is going down, and, as the sweet, grey evening comes on apace, Mabel awakes refreshed from her half-hour’s nap, makes her way down to the water, and springs into her punt. The young soldier lounges on the cushions, and she, pricking the bed of the river with the long bamboo, sends the flat-bottomed craft through the water with splendid speed, while her grace and strength suggest some Greek athlete of old rather than a modern English girl. Her figure, with the long pole in her hands, stands out clear against the sky, which is brightest in that hour “between the moondawn and the sundown,” when the spirit of romance is beginning to flit about, whispering its secrets to those hearts that are willing to hear. And who knows whether Mabel’s heart hears or not? She is dreamily silent, and the idle youth in the punt has been bluntly told not to talk, for he could not interpret for her the beautiful mysteries of this hour, “when the twilight hangs half starless.” She is not sentimental, and the romance of her life is as yet the romance of comedy; but there are moments, even for an “awfully jolly girl” like Mabel, when the simple eloquence of Nature is all-sufficient, and any ordinary talk is an intrusion.

Now Mabel takes her punt up a picturesque bit of backwater, where the trees stretch their branches across from bank to bank and clasp each other, and the water-rats are boldly sportive, and here she stops and listens to the many-voiced silence, forgetful of her companion. But the spell of the hour and the river is upon him, and in his boyish blundering way he blurts out his love and asks Mabel to marry him—which is just the last thing he should have done under the circumstances, if he wanted to remain “chums” with her. As it is, he puts her out of humour, and she makes for home as speedily as possible. Then these two do not speak all the evening; she devotes herself to somebody else, and he is very wretched. Next day she does not ride with him, nor does she take him out in her punt. At last he has to beg her forgiveness, which she grants on condition that he never talks “nonsense” again. But they have not been quite on the same frank terms since, and I hardly think they ever will be again unless he remains constant for a little while—say two or three years, perhaps—and bides his time to ask her again.