Dust: A Novel

by Julian Hawthorne

“At all events, that costs no money,” said Marion, with a laugh.

Marion’s social success was undeniably great. She possessed both tact and courage—two qualities not always found in company; and she had more intelligence than most of the women she came in contact with. Her figure and movement were fine, her dress always in good taste; her voice agreeable; her face had a poignancy and variety of expression that produced the effect of beauty without being beautiful. At her presentation at Court, the Prince of Wales, who had complimented her mother more than a generation before, informed Marion that she made him wish he was young again, begad! She speedily found herself surrounded by a circle of gentlemen who were only too ready to express their admiration for her; prominent among whom was the little Irish poet, Thomas Moore, who was not disheartened by the unceremonious treatment she had given him at their first interview: and she completed her conquest of him by singing a song which he vowed he had composed in her praise. Young Mrs. Lancaster was in demand everywhere: her box at the theatre and the opera was always crowded; when she rode or drove in the Row, she was attended by a retinue of cavaliers: she played cards, danced, talked politics, and, in short, ignored the inside and celebrated the outside of life. Lady Flanders looked on at it all, grinned horribly beneath her shaggy eyebrows, and neglected no opportunity of congratulating Philip on being the husband of so brilliant a woman. “You must look out for your laurels, Mr. Lancaster,” she would add: “ ‘Iduna’ was well enough for the idyllic period, but you must give us something better now; make the lady elope with the Lord Chamberlain, and leave the Sea-God in the lurch.” Mrs. Lockhart, on the other hand, whose nature it was always to enjoy what was good in the world, and not to see or believe in the bad, was placidly happy in the conviction that her daughter was as prosperous as she deserved to be, and as merry as she seemed. Marion was uniformly careful not to disturb the maternal serenity, though once she startled the poor lady by exclaiming “Oh, I wish Mr. Grant were alive!” with a passionate moan in her voice like the outcry of a soul in despair.

Was anything the matter, then? Marion had no confidants, except solitude, which tells no tales. But it may be conjectured that, when she yielded to her husband on the question of the legacy, she gave up, once for all, her view of right, and set herself to adopt his own. “If Philip wants wealth,” she might have said to herself, “it must be to reap the worldly advantages of it. These are necessary to his happiness: and ’tis my duty, therefore, to help him, as a wife should, to be happy in his own way. I take my law from him; I will have no half measures: and he shall have just the fashionable, dashing, rattling wife that he wants.”

Having laid down this general principle, it would be characteristic of Marion to act upon it fervently. No doubt she was far from being incapable of appreciating the charm that lies in social dissipation; but she would perhaps have thrown herself into it with less of recklessness and abandon, had she gained access to it by some less humiliating path. There was a pride and nobility in her that had the effect of making her give more energy and prominence to conduct which opposed her conscience than to that which was approved by it. She startled and perplexed Philip, and fascinated him also; he found in her a vigor and activity superior to his own. She out-Heroded Herod; he had not suspected all this latent power; and yet he felt that something tender and sweet and infinitely valuable, was missing. There were between them no more silent sympathies and intuitive agreements. What was to be done and said, not thought and felt, was now the subject of their intercourse. Their communication was more lively but less satisfying than of yore.

What was Marion’s idea and intention in this? Did she really believe that it was what her husband wanted? Logically, perhaps, she did so; but scarcely in her heart. Women, when they are logical, generally are so in an extreme and illogical way; as if to demonstrate how contemptible logic is. More than half her vivacity may have been assumed in order to provoke Philip into finding fault with it; and yet, if he did find fault with it, she would profess herself at a loss to know what on earth would please him. If he suggested moderation, she would say “No: I must be one thing or the other.” If he replied “Be the other, then,” she would answer, “Too late, now I have learnt how pleasant dissipation is.” And if he asked her whether dissipation were the true end of marriage? she would laugh and reply that one cannot have everything in this world.

Thus, by degrees, were these two married lovers, who had begun their career under such fair auspices, drawing away from each other: what was best in each of them was starving for lack of nourishment; but Marion, at least, was proud enough to starve to death rather than confess to suffering. As a matter of course, since they could not meet in the only way worth meeting, they looked away from each other as much as possible. Philip tried to find consolation in his poetry: but the faculty of happy concentration and abstraction no longer came to him as formerly. The loving and confidential talks which he and Marion had been wont to have, about what he was writing, or purposing to write, were hardly practicable now; but, if he found the craving for intellectual sympathy too strong in him, there was always one place where he was sure to find it, and that was in the private boudoir of the Marquise Desmoines. She always welcomed him with loveliness and delightful words: she looked him in the eye and spoke to the point: he felt the immediate contact of her mind and nature, and experienced from it a secret sense of luxury and consolation. At first, Perdita used to inquire courteously after Marion; but after a time these inquiries became rarer, and finally ceased. Nor did Philip happen to mention these visits to his wife: what would it matter to her where he went or what he found to converse about? She probably had her own interests and occupations, of which he was ignorant. She would only laugh, and say that he was fulfilling Lady Flanders’ predictions.

Once in a while, in the midst of all this gayety and resonance, Marion’s laugh would suddenly end in a long, shuddering sigh, and her eyes would grow hot and dry. But she would laugh again, and utter some witty, extravagant speech, if she thought her husband was observing her. And once, at night, Philip chanced to awake, and fancied that Marion was weeping, and the bed was shaken by her smothered sobs. But, when he spoke to her, she started, and declared, after a moment, that she had been asleep, and had a nightmare. “I dreamt Lady Flanders had grown young and beautiful,” she said, “and wore a dress handsomer than mine: and it broke my heart!” Whereupon Philip said no more.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THERE was in Perdita a strong element of adventurousness and Bohemianism, which had not as yet been so fully gratified as to lose its poignancy. A longing came over her, occasionally, to behold phases of life that would not, in the ordinary course of things, come under her observation. At such times she would regret that she had not been born a gypsy—in oblivion of the fact that although, being a marquise, she might play at vagabondage, it would not be as easy for a vagabond to experience the sensations of a marquise. The latter has the best of it.

At this epoch of our history it so happened that Perdita fell a victim to one of the periodical attacks in question. She wanted to do or see something a little beyond the boundaries of conventional propriety. What should it be? She passed in mental review all the resources of the town. There was plenty of impropriety to be had for the taking,—that was speedily evident; but perhaps it was the very wealth of the opportunities that rendered the Marquise hard to suit. Her motive being curiosity, not desperation, she did not wish to involve herself in anything that would lay her open to social obloquy; she would not risk her escapade being discovered by people she knew. Furthermore, there were many aspects of the shady side of life which she had no disposition to investigate. Between these two stools the fair explorer was in some danger of coming to the ground: when, all at once, she made up her mind that her requirements would be well enough satisfied by a visit to Vauxhall.