CHAPTER XXIX.

THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE.

"The sea is cruel, its white waves hide me, Lo I am weary and scant of breath, Thou to a haven of safety guide me, Stretch out thy hand, lest I swoon to death.

"Thou art my God in this hour of peril, Yet in thy sight, I am lost and vile, All thy love, as the sea is sterile, I sink, I perish, beneath thy smile."

There are always two sides to a question, especially to the question of marriage.

One side is invariably taken by the husband, the other by the wife.

Both claim their side to be right, and, as this is an impossibility, one side must be wrong.

Which?

It is a difficult question to settle, more difficult than the judgment of Solomon, more difficult than the judgment of Paris, and though the world, represented by the Law, generally plays the part of arbitrator in conjugal disputes, in this case it was referred to neither by the husband nor the wife.

Under these circumstances it will be as well to argue both sides fairly, and pronounce a verdict in favour of the strongest.

A case for the opinion of Society, unrepresented by any legal tribunal, the parties concerned conducting their own cases personally.

On the part of the wife--

"When I married Guy Errington, I had no belief whatsoever in the masculine sex, such scepticism being due to my knowledge of the character of my father, Gabriel Mostyn. Before his illness I lived in almost conventual seclusion, and from the reading of books formed an ideal world, which I have since found to be as unreal as the fantastic visions of Oriental dreamers.

"My world was based upon a delusive belief in the chivalry of men and the purity of women, and resembled in its visionary loveliness the Garden of Eden, before Eve tempted Adam with the fatal fruit. In this unreal world men were always young, handsome and true-hearted, while the women were beautiful in their forms and faces, pure in their lives. I dreamed that some day I, an inhabitant of this beautiful universe, would meet with a lover who would dedicate his life to mine, and we would go through life side by side in love and purity, until we exchanged this heaven upon earth for one even fairer.

"Alas! these were but the virginal dreams of a girl, unsullied by contact with the world, and my ideal life was shattered by the vile cynicism of my father, who took a delight in destroying all my illusions, and in dragging me down from the light of fancy to the darkness of reality.

"So evil had been his life, that no one would stay by him in his hour of need, and I, a young girl, unsophisticated and innocent, was forced to remain beside his bed. To him I dedicated my youth, my innocence, my womanly feeling, my filial tenderness, and received as a reward a brutal unveiling of the most horrible things on earth. When I went to his bedside at the beginning of those four bitter years I was an innocent girl, when I turned away, leaving him stiff and stark in his coffin, I was, in knowledge, an accomplished woman of the world. I believed in no one. I doubted the motives of all. I looked upon my fellow-creatures as birds of prey who would turn and rend me were I not dexterous enough to foil them with their own weapons. Is it then to be wondered at that I dreaded marriage with a man who would doubtless be as evil in his thoughts and deeds as was my father?

"Had I been in receipt of a sufficient income to keep me from starving, had I been able to earn my own living, I would never have married; but under the grudging hospitality of my relatives, and the iron grip of poverty, the strongest resolution must give way. I was no heroine to battle with the merciless world as represented to me by my father, so, in despair, I married Guy Errington.

"To my surprise and delight, I found him to resemble the ideal inhabitants of my fanciful world, and honoured and respected him for those qualities which I had never seen in my father. He was good, kind, loving and tender, all of which qualities to me, in a man, were like a revelation from God. Still, the teachings of my father could not be easily eradicated, and I dreaded lest some chance should rend the veil which hid his real nature and show me the innate brutality which my father assured me existed in all mankind.

"Meanwhile, I was thankful for his kindness, and strove to show by every means in my power how I reciprocated his love. If he accuses me of coldness, I can offer no defence. I am not a demonstrative woman, as all my timid outbursts of affection were ruthlessly crushed by my father, and self-restraint has become a habit with me. Besides, dreading lest my married happiness should not last, I wore my coldness as an armour against a possible disappointment.

"I loved my husband, but the invincible mistrust which my father had inculcated in my breast isolated me during the earlier portion of our married life, and I was afraid to let my husband see how much I loved him, lest he took advantage of such confidence. Still, I wanted something to love, something that I could worship, could cling to, something that I could trust in fully and that would not deceive me.

"It came at last, a pure, little, white soul from the hand of God; and to my child I gave the whole of the love, the adoration, the passion, which had been pent up in my breast for so many years for want of some one on whom I could bestow them without fear of the consequence.

"My husband hated to see me so fond of the child, for his jealous nature would be content with nothing but undivided love, and in spite of my desire to make him happy, I could not leave my child unloved in order to pander to his selfish passion. He resented my reproval of his folly and withdrew himself from my society, so that I had no one to love but my child, and, although we lived in the same house, the poles were not further asunder than we were.

"Then she came between us--that vile woman whom my father knew in South America--and my husband, weary of his home, of his wife, of his child, left all to go to her. What wife could put up with such an insult? Had it been any other woman, it would have been bad enough, but this special woman whom he knew I despised, whom he knew from my lips to be an infamous creature, this was the woman for whom he forsook me.

"How can I believe his explanations? They are all false, glibly as they are uttered. No! I am deceived no longer, he is the same as my father, and seeks only the selfish gratification of his own appetites. The end has come, as I knew it would--the mask is torn off, and I see my husband, whom I loved and trusted during the early days of our marriage, as he really is. My father was right; there is no faith, honour, honesty, nor truth, in men; and I have only acted rightly in refusing to live with a man who could behave so to his wife and child.

"Even now he is with that woman, on the feeble plea that my coldness drove him away. Does that excuse his vice? No! He should have waited until perfect love, perfect understanding, was established between us, but now we are parted for ever. He has gone back to the life most congenial to him, and I--I, like many other women, can do nothing but pray that my son may not grow up to follow in the evil footsteps of his father."

On the part of the husband--

"Saints do not live among men, except in the canonization of the Church, and before my marriage I was neither better nor worse than any other young man. But without being either a Saint Anthony or a Saint Francis, I did my best to lead a decent life in every way, and if I had a few vices--or what ascetics term vices--they were so small that they were invisible except to the microscope of certain Pharisees who pass their lives in finding out their neighbours' faults, and thanking God they are not as other men are.

"I loved my wife from the first moment I saw her, being in the first place attracted by the beauty of her person, and in the second by the difference in her nature to that of other women. I do not put myself forward either as a deep thinker or as a student of humanity, but must confess I grew weary of the ordinary Society woman, married or unmarried. They talked in a frivolous fashion of the most trivial things, but Alizon Mostyn attracted me by the charm of her conversation, not that she was very learned, or particularly brilliant, but she talked of ordinary matters in an original way, which was wonderfully fascinating. I loved her dearly, and saw in this pale, quiet girl, one who would be a companion to me, who would make me a better man, and aid me to lead my life on a higher plane to that which I had hitherto done.

"It was for this reason I married her, and though she was cold in her manner towards me, this very coldness had a certain charm about it which I could not resist. I knew that she had been badly treated by her father, so strove in every way by tenderness and love to make amends for the misery of her early life.

"After marriage I was perfectly satisfied with my wife, and although at times her persistent coldness wounded me, yet I thought by unfailing love and attention to make her open her heart to me. No doubt I would have achieved this object if it had not been for the birth of the child, which has, in a great measure, been the cause of all the trouble of our later married life.

"I was glad to welcome the child, as I thought it would form a new link between us, and by thawing her frigid disposition draw us closer together. But, instead of doing this, the boy was the cause of our estrangement, as she lavished upon him all the love of which her nature was capable, and I was persistently neglected.

"No doubt the world would think I had little to complain of--my wife was perfect, both in her conjugal and maternal capacity--the only trouble being the cherishing of the child to the neglect of the father.

"But, look at the matter from my point of view. I had married my wife for companionship, for the sake of satisfying the craving of human nature to be loved, and instead of my ideas being realized, I found myself shut out of Paradise, while my wife, with her child, rested happily within. She was never away from the boy, and day after day I was forced to live a lonely life, neglected and uncared for by a woman I adored. All her ideas, conversation, and desires, were bound up in the child, so that she had neither the time nor inclination to take an interest in my pursuits, or in my life. We dwelt together as man and wife, to all appearances we were a happy and attached couple, yet the child stood between us, like an evil shadow, which isolated us the one from the other. Often I tried to break down this barrier, by praising the child, but the mother seemed jealous even of the father; she wanted the child all to herself, and, secure in such possession, was contented to treat her husband as an ordinary friend.

"I resented this state of things, I revolted at being condemned to occupy such an isolated position, but I could do nothing. My wife was perfect in every other way, and to have complained would have been ridiculous, so I was forced to suffer in silence. God alone knows how I did suffer in the solitude to which I was condemned, at seeing the love and caresses bestowed on the child, love and caresses in which I had no share. All her life was in the child, and she possessed him. My life was in her--and I was a stranger to her in every way.

"Under the circumstances I thought it best to go away for a few weeks, thinking that she would miss me in some little measure, and would be more affectionate and tender when I returned. Whether such an idea was right or wrong I do not know, I never shall know, for between our parting and our meeting occurred the episode of Mrs. Veilsturm.

"On my honour, I went innocently enough into the presence of this woman. I had forgotten all about my wife's refusal to receive her, for had I remembered I certainly would not have gone. But, as I said before, I had forgotten. I had never seen the woman; I did not even know her name. How then was I to recollect the episode of eighteen months before?--an episode the memory of which had not lasted longer than a few days.

"I went to Mrs. Veilsturm's 'At home.' I found her a charming woman, and, at her express invitation, I went often to her house. She was different from the ordinary run of women, and I took pleasure in her society, but there was no warmer feeling between us, at least, not on my part. With the scandal of the world I have nothing to do, sin and purity are treated the same way, and the mere fact of my being once or twice seen with Mrs. Veilsturm was sufficient to set afloat the lying story which came to my wife's ears through the medium of Aunt Jelly.

"To my wife I told the whole story, but she refused to believe me. I confessed that I had remembered about Mrs. Veilsturm when it was too late, but she accused me of knowing the truth from the first, and of having wilfully acted as I had done. Nothing I could say could shake her belief in this matter, and she swore she would never forgive me for the insult I had placed upon her.

"What could I do? Nothing! except retire from the scene. In vain I assured her of my complete innocence. She refused to believe my statement, and drove me from her presence--from my home--with cruel words. This woman, wrapped up in an armour of purity--of selfish purity--could not credit my innocence in any way. She judged me from the 'I-would-not-have-acted-thus' standpoint, and insisted that I had betrayed her basely, although she had no further proof than the gossip of the world.

"I left her. I came back to London to see Mrs. Veilsturm again. It is wrong--I know it is wrong--but what am I to do? Live an isolated existence, pass days and nights of abject misery, only to pander to her self-righteous ideas? For eighteen months, in spite of all my tenderness and love, she has wilfully neglected me, she has refused to acknowledge that I have been a good husband, she has rendered my life miserable, and now she has driven me forth from my own home on account of a sin--if it can be called so--of which I am guiltless.

"What am I to do? Live the life of a hermit in order to right myself in her eyes and be called back and pardoned, as if I were indeed guilty? No! I will not do so. It is her fault, not mine, that I am placed in such a miserable position. Unable to win her by tenderness, by love, I will henceforth live my own life and see what neglect will do. For every pang she has inflicted upon me I will inflict a pang upon her, for her months of neglect I will repay her in full, for her coldness I will give coldness in my turn, and to any remonstrances she may offer I will say then what I say now--'It is your work.'"

So far the cases of husband and wife, each arguing from their own point of view. Now which of them is right, the man or the woman? The husband who strove to win his wife's love, or the wife who refused to give the husband that love which was his due.

Errington was now acting wrongly, as he himself knew; he was voluntarily flinging himself into the arms of a woman whom he knew to be worthless, but who can say he had no provocation? He had done his best to win his wife's love, he had suffered in silence during the period of his married life, and in return she had shamefully neglected him, and had finally, with hardly any proof, accused him of voluntarily making a friend of a worthless woman. Outraged by this treatment, the husband left her presence, and she had driven him into the very jaws of destruction.

Doubtless he should have stood firm, and by years of patient self-sacrifice showed her that she was wrong. But how many of us are capable of such asceticism? How many of us would stand for long years in the outer darkness, knowing himself to be guiltless of the crime laid to his charge?

This woman--pure wife, affectionate mother, as she was--had acted as if she were above the weaknesses of human nature. She had arrogated to herself the functions of the Deity in judging and condemning a poor human soul, who, weary with beseeching for what it never received, fell away in despair into the gulf of sin and misery.

Who was wrong--the man who sought evil in despair, or the woman whose coldness and purity had denied him the mercy which would have saved him?