AN ODD COUPLE

BY MRS. OLIPHANT, Author of “Chronicles of Carlingford,” “Salem Chapel,” “The Minister’s Wife,” &c. PHILADELPHIA: PORTER AND COATES, No. 822 Chestnut Street. PRESS OF HENRY B. ASHMEAD, 1102 and 1104 Sansom St.

CONTENTS.

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CHAPTER I. HE, AND SHE.

“IN that case, perhaps, it would be better that we should part!”

These ominous words were said very steadily and precisely, but with a certain sense of nervous excitement in the utterance, by Mr. Charles Tremenheere, one morning in November, in his own drawing-room, and were, I need scarcely say, addressed to his own wife. To whom else could they have been said? He was not the kind of man who might have been expected to speak words striking at the very root of family existence, being, indeed, a very orderly and respectable personage,—anything but a revolutionary.{8} The amount of provocation which he had endured before he said them need not be entered into here. He had been married about ten years, and had two children, a boy of nine and a girl of seven. Mrs. Tremenheere was seated opposite to him at a small work-table knitting, with a composure which was aggravating to the last degree. Her needles met each other with tranquil regularity, and not a single dropped stitch or irregular line bore witness to any excitement of feeling. They were middle-aged people, and might very well have been married twenty years

instead of ten. He was standing in the favorite attitude of Englishmen, in front of the fire, a thin angular man, moving with a certain jerkiness and rapidity, slightly bald, with refined features, and hair growing gray, and looking very much what he was, a clerk in a public office, much more experienced and learned in the country’s business than was in general the distinguished “chief” at the head of the department, though he was a Minister of State and probably a Grand Seigneur, Knight of the Garter, and everything that was splendid—while his instructor and referee who kept him out of mischief was only Mr. Charles{9} Tremenheere. Nevertheless, the injustice in this respect was more apparent than real, for Mr. Tremenheere was a man as well known in those high regions from which the country is ruled as the Queen herself, and most people whose opinion he cared about were perfectly acquainted with the real standing of which the vulgar knew nothing. “Tremenheere will keep him right,” the Premier himself said when he appointed the rising

man of the day Secretary of State for that department. Indeed, I need not tell you, dear reader, which department it was. It is in very good hands and does not require our interference, and it is enough for the purpose of the narrative that you should know who this gentleman was. He had been very much in society in his younger days, and still kept up his old friends, though his wife, whose taste was somewhat different from his own, had separated him from the tide of fashion; and he loved society, judging men and things by the standard in favor there, and making but small account of qualities which were not appreciated in these finest circles. This was a grave ground of debate between his wife and himself. They did not quarrel according to the{10} ordinary pattern of conjugal quarrels. She was not a scold nor he a villain; he behaved as a gentleman should and she like a well-bred woman. But they differed incessantly, continually, with the heat of people who quarrel about convictions, a thing more persistent than the light differences which

arise on every-day subjects; and so at last it had come to this—“Perhaps in that case it would be better that we should part!”

Mr. Tremenheere felt when he said this that he had discharged his last volley. What more could he say or do? and he expected it to startle and appal his calm antagonist. He thought that an utterance so trenchant, so final, would penetrate through all her defences, and make her feel what it was to defy a man who was her natural head, her social representative. Almost, he expected to see the common appeal of womankind which he had read of in books, and which everybody, so far as he knew (who was not married to Mrs. Tremenheere), believed in. Mrs. Tremenheere had never yet wept to him nor pleaded for forgiveness. She had never broken down under any of his reproaches—never been melted into helpless{11}ness by his appeals. Would she do it now—would she cry—would she throw herself at his feet or on his neck and ask him to take back that cruel suggestion? Inevitably it must bring her to herself.

But, indeed, the result was not as he anticipated. Mrs. Tremenheere bore the shock with wonderful composure. She scarcely raised her head; she scarcely paused in her knitting. She allowed him to speak as calmly as if he had been saying, “I will dine at my club.” And then there followed an interval of silence which was as if the spheres stood still to Mr. Tremenheere. His eyes were upon her, but she did not look at him. Was it that she did not dare to look at him? Was it her pride which kept her eyes on her knitting, her head bowed down? one or the other it must be.

But if she did not feel the shock, he did, when Mrs. Tremenheere, raising her head and looking at him, without any of the excitement in her eyes which blinded his, replied quietly, “I have no doubt, as things have gone so far, that it would be the best—in every way.”

“Good God! Ada,” he said in sudden horror. “What do you mean?”

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“It is not what I mean, Mr. Tremenheere. I have not taken any initiative. We do not agree, unfortunately, or think alike in anything; but it was not I who called attention to this. I had made up my mind to go on and make the best of it. But when you see it so clearly I feel that it would be foolish to contradict you. Yes,” she said with a sigh; “it is a pity, but I think you are right: and separation would be the best.”

“You think so!” he said, furious. “Oh, you think so! Good heavens! and this is what it is to end in, after all that has come and gone!”

“It was not I who suggested it,” she said, resuming her knitting; “but since you think so, dear——”

“Dear! dear comes in well in such a discussion,” said the husband furiously. He left the fire and strode across to the window, and stood gazing out with his back to her. The sight of her composure made him wild. “If we are to arrange this let it be without any pretence of false affection. Conventional humbug may at least be put away now.”

“I am never conventional that I know of,” she said slightly roused. “We do not agree, Charles; but{13} why should we hate each other? It is this that would be conventional, not an innocent word.”

“Oh, confound your innocent words,” he muttered through his teeth; but this she did not hear, nor was she intended to hear it. He could hear the slight stir of her needles where he stood looking out upon the rolling of the fog which now lifted a little, now came down heavier. Nothing could be more doleful than the prospect out-of-doors. Hyde Park, which was opposite, threw up a line of spectral trees into the yellow of the atmosphere. The passengers went by slipping upon the greasy pavement, the horses surrounded themselves with a halo of white breath like the nimbus of a mediæval saint; the kind of day from which you shrink and turn to the cheerful fire within; but to poor Mr. Tremenheere the fog itself was more cheerful than the genial blaze near which the wife sat in her warm velvet dress, the impersonation of domestic comfort. How comfortable she looked! He saw her very well, though his back was turned. With a matronly fulness of person,—not too much, only enough to be becoming,—light brown hair, not changed or touched by

time, and a great deal more{14} abundant than is usual nowadays. It seemed suddenly to flash upon him how changed the room would look without her, and the house and all his daily life. Was it possible that she could be so hard-hearted, so cruel, so blind to every duty? If it had not been his own suggestion he would have turned round and laughed in her face. She go away after ten years’ companionship and quarrelling! Quarreling when it is continuous and familiar endears just as much as anything else. She could not think of it. It must be a bit of bravado to frighten him and make him give in on the subject they had disagreed upon. Women were bad enough; but they were not so bad, not so heartless as this. So Mr. Tremenheere considered that the wisest thing he could do was to show the impatience, but not the uneasiness he felt, and to rush off to the office, where he ought to have been some time ago, but for the disagreement which had brought matters all at once and unexpectedly to a crisis so terrible.

“I am aware that you have plenty of time to talk,” he said, “but I have not. I am off to the office. You have detained me too long already with this ridicu{15}lous discussion. Why should we have these continual misunderstandings? I advise you to put folly out of your head, and try to find some way by which we can get on like other people. I shall be back at seven to-night.”

And he turned round and looked at her. Surely at least she would show some natural feeling now. But she did not. She bent her head a little and said, “Very well, good morning,” and went on with her knitting. Good morning! Good heavens! What did she mean by that “good morning!” Was it anxiety! Was it determination? He would rather have seen her eyes, and then he might have known what she meant. But he would not resign the superior position he had assumed by waiting to see what her eyes meant. He had to go, as he said, shutting the door with some energy behind him. He stumbled over the children at the door, and, instead of stopping to kiss them, as was his wont, pushed the little things away, who were all done up in their winter gear, great coats and furs.

“Is this a day to take the children out? Go back to the nursery at once,” he said, not stopping to hear{16} what the nurse, indignant, said about Missis. Missis! what was she that she must argue about everything, instead of taking her husband’s opinion like other people?—when of course he must know best; he a man of the world. But Mr. Tremenheere went to the office that day with a heavy heart. He had “shot an arrow into the air,” and he did not know where he should find that inadvertent missile. And all without meaning it! meaning nothing more than to frighten her; to show her what terrors might be if she did not mind what she was about—to warn her of possibilities which perhaps had never dawned upon her before.

Mrs. Tremenheere, however, was much more startled by her husband’s suggestion than she allowed to appear; but scarcely in the way a wife might be supposed to be startled. It was not the fear of lost love or any sentimental disturbance which was in her mind. There are wives, and even some whose married life is not particularly harmonious, to whom such words would be as the rending asunder of heaven and earth; but this lady was not one of them. She did not feel the soil crumbling under her feet or the skies dividing over her head because her husband{17} threw out the suggestion, that probably they might be better apart. She was not wounded in this profound and poignant way, but she was startled by the sudden introduction to her of a new idea, a something previously unthought of which was evidently worthy of thought. And perhaps she was a little piqued and slightly stung in her pride that the idea had not originated with herself. Even the most philosophical woman, she who has least care to preserve the often humiliating privileges of sex, has a

kind of prejudice in favor of all such suggestions originating with herself. That her husband should be able calmly to contemplate a separation did not throw her into hysterics or into despair, but yet she should have liked to have been the first to suggest the separation. When, however, she had got over this she was seriously struck by the new idea. Separation! it meant a great deal which Mrs. Tremenheere had never considered before, and which she began to consider with the seriousness which became a very important matter. Living separate was easy enough to friends who perhaps might be better friends apart than if thrown continually together. It was nothing very dreadful even for{18} members of the same family. Brothers and sisters separated continually, yet remained brotherly and sisterly all their lives; but a man and wife,—this was something totally different, involving a very great deal more. A separation of this sort is seldom considered in the reflective and calm spirit in which Mrs. Tremenheere regarded it. Usually it is

decided upon in mere heat of passion, or under the sting of some intolerable wrong—and only when the misery of the two compelled to live together has become past bearing. All this was very different from her sentiments; she sat very still going on with her knitting, her needles perhaps moving a little more quickly than usual, and her eyes very intent upon what she was doing, until at last she dropped her work on her lap, letting fall the ball of wool with which she was knitting, and which a playful kitten from the hearthrug immediately sprang upon. The kitten thought her mistress had done it on purpose, and that this was an invitation to play, and purred loudly to show her satisfaction, arching her back and looking up into Mrs. Tremenheere’s abstracted face as she put her foot upon the ball. It was a pretty Persian kitten with a{19} long sweeping tail, and the room was very pretty, with harmonious furniture and fine water-color drawings, a carefully selected collection, for both husband and wife prided themselves on knowing something about art. The

chair upon which Mrs. Tremenheere sat was an elegant Chippendale, which she preferred to the usual luxurious articles of the drawing-room. The table by her side was spider-legged, and daintily carved in ebony. An old Italian cabinet in the same wood, inlaid with silver, stood against the wall behind. Careful thought and taste, and some amount of culture, showed in every part of the room. A bright fire blazed, throwing pleasant lights about, sparkling in the glasses of the old Venice chandelier, and doing its best to neutralize the effects of the fog without. When Mrs. Tremenheere dropped her knitting in her lap she raised her head with a sigh and turned her eyes to the window, as it is so natural to do when one is in trouble. She was not young; but she was a handsome woman, with clear high features, blue eyes, and abundant hair—not fat, though that is the usual epithet to apply to a woman of forty, which was her age, but tall and of an imposing presence. And she{20} was very well dressed in a dark velvet gown, which threw up her

fairness, with old-fashioned ornaments such as betrayed the same prevailing taste as that which was apparent in the room. She was so entirely in keeping with the place that it may be supposed the idea of leaving it was not agreeable to her. But even this was not how the matter appeared at the present moment to Mrs. Tremenheere. She had not yet come so far as to think of leaving her home, or of any of the material consequences to follow, but was only startled into serious consideration of the idea and of what it meant, and if it really would be “best,” as her husband had said.

She was asking herself this question when the nurse and children burst into the room in full walking array, as when Mr. Tremenheere had turned them back—every ribbon on nurse’s bonnet (and there were a great many), and every hair on her head, though they were less abundant, was bridling with indignation. The little girl had her finger in her mouth, and was whimpering in sympathy. The boy, more indifferent, received imaginary balls upon the short hoop-stick{21} which he held like a cricket-bat, and let the woman talk with masculine composure.

“Please ma’am, master-has-turned-us-back,” said nurse, running all her words into one. “It’s-a-fog-and-we-ain’t-to-go-out-in-a-fog; and a deal of exercise the dear children will get in London if we don’t never go out in fogs. I said as it was you, but he said as it was me, and gave ’em a push which it isn’t like a gentleman,” said the nurse out of breath; while little Vera, stamping her little foot, cried, “Naughty papa!”

“And master is as unreasonable as unreasonable, as well you knows, ma’am, though you might’nt say it,” nurse added, before she could be stopped.

Mrs. Tremenheere colored high, and when she flushed the color remained, as she was well aware, on the ridge of her delicate high nose much longer than was becoming or agreeable, which made her still more angry. “You are very impertinent to speak of your master so,” she said. “Take the children’s things off at once, and send them to me; and Vera, if you whimper you shall have a punishment. Go directly. I am very much displeased.”

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“It ain’t us, ma’am, that you’ve occasion to be displeased with,” nurse began. “It’s Mr. ——”

“Do you wish me to send you away at an hour’s notice?” said Mrs. Tremenheere in a low voice, hastily rising from her chair and putting down the knitting with some impatience on the table, as she dismissed the party peremptorily. Was this the end of it all? She had meant well, as well as ever woman meant, or so at least she thought; but this was the end. A servant who ventured to appeal to her knowledge of her husband’s unreasonableness—a child who felt itself justified in saying “Naughty papa.” Was this what she had done, betraying herself and betraying him, bringing down the credit and good reputation which she was bound to preserve? Then indeed he was right, and it would be best for them to part.

She had, however, little time to pursue these reflections, for soon after the door again opened, and the little pair came back, Vera in a little velvet frock like her mother’s, with the hair cut square on her forehead and falling behind upon her shoulders, leading the way,—Eddy behind, still with the hoop-stick of which he made an imaginary cricket-bat. Vera had a lapful{23} of dolls in her pinafore—dolls without noses, without arms, with feet twisted off, with necks wrung, with hair torn from their heads, but only the dearer for all their misfortunes, as Othello was “for the dangers he had known.” Vera tripped in light as a little fairy, her pretty hair streaming over her shoulders. She was one of those born actors who (up to the age of ten or so) are always consciously playing some rôle or other, and to-day her part was that of an anxious mother taking care of her offspring. The little creature took no notice of her own mother, who sat gazing at her with many thoughts in her heart, but seating herself on the other side of the

fireplace began to arrange her family. She put her dolls round her like a class at school, setting them up to sit with their miserable legs thrust out on all the stools she could find, and then began to address them with busy gravity—now pulling a dress straight, now arranging a wig of tow. The busy little human thing among all these wooden counterfeits of herself was as curious a sight as one could wish to see. How she managed them, pulling this one roughly about, coaxing another, according to their character! and indeed there were{24} to the child’s lively imagination distinct traces of character in the very attitude of these ungainly babes.