‘ ’Tis well I am so beautifully happy with you, Phil,’ she said one day, ‘for this trouble weighs so on my heart that had I any other ’twould break in two.’
‘Oh, no fear!’ laughed Phil. They led a very gay life, these two exceedingly irresponsible young people, and indeed, older heads were nodded in wisdom, and prophecies were made that Carrie would have trouble enough with her wild young husband. Philip seemed, for the present at least, to have given up work of any kind. He meant to be in Parliament some day, he told Carrie, meantime he would enjoy himself and see the world. He was also letting Carrie see it, a process she much enjoyed, and, in Phil’s company, entered into with all her heart, unlike the lack-lustre young woman who had gone about with Lady Mallow the preceding winter. Carrie was now introduced into far finer circles than those of her worthy aunt. Her name figured in all the reports of what we should in this vulgar age call ‘smart’ society—a fact which afforded her a good deal of natural mundane satisfaction. ‘The beautiful Mrs. Meadowes,’ ‘Handsome Mrs. Philip Meadowes,’ ‘That most charming lady, Mrs. Meadowes’—these and similar descriptions of herself made Carrie dimple with pleasure. But a woman in such a position, so young, so beautiful, so unsophisticated, would, to defend herself aright, require a beak and claws, whereas our gentle Carrie had not even a sharp tongue wherewith to chastise her enemies. She entered society with no protection but simplicity—a much vaunted armour which, alas for the world, is in reality sadly vulnerable. Brought up as she had been almost exclusively among men—and honest men into the bargain—Carrie was quite ignorant of the wiles of her own sex, and scolded Philip heartily when he ventured to warn her against them; while, for the sterner sex, she entertained almost pathetic feelings of confidence and liking. The men did not exist (in consequence) who could resist her, and this more than any other cause at last opened Carrie’s eyes a little to the involutions of the feminine character. Alas! too late; half the women in London were jealous of her before Carrie was even distantly aware of it. She had smilingly accepted flowers and attention from many a man before it occurred to her that other women might be wanting them instead.
‘Just singe your wings, my dear butterfly,’ said Phil, ‘then you will understand what the candle is.’
‘Philip, it must be from your father you take such base views of human nature,’ said Carrie. ‘For certainly you have not lived long enough yourself to learn such views. ’Tis not my fault that I am good-looking, and I do not believe for a moment that other women dislike me for it.’
‘Wait—ah, just wait, Carrie. I agree with you that they do not dislike you for it—hate is the word.’
‘Phil, I am ashamed to hear my husband say such things,’ said Carrie, though she laughed in spite of herself.
I have said that Carrie liked and trusted all men; but with one exception—she could not abide the sight of Simon Prior.
‘I cannot say what it is, Phil,’ she said one day, ‘but to speak with Mr. Prior doth turn me sick. Pray, my dearest, is he a great friend? Could you not intimate to him that he visits my drawing-room too frequently?’
Prior had certainly got into a strange habit of haunting the house in St. James’ Square, considering how very lukewarm a reception he always received there. Carrie was one of those fortunate women who find it quite impossible to be anything except pleasant to every one. She would sit, smiling and charming, beside Simon Prior, while all the time she loathed the sound of his voice.
‘Do not be so pleasant to the man, Carrie,’ Phil suggested; and Carrie in genuine amazement opened her blue eyes widely:—