Tales and Novels — Volume 06

CHAPTER IV.

On Sunday evening a large company assembled at our heroine’s summons. They were all seated in due form: the reader with his book open, and waiting for the arrival of the bride, for whom a conspicuous place was destined, where the spectators, and especially Mrs. Nettleby and our Griselda, could enjoy a full view of her countenance.

“Lord bless me! it is getting late: I am afraid—I am really afraid Mrs. Granby will not come.”

The ladies had time to discuss who and what she was: as she had lived in the country, few of them had seen, or could tell any thing about her; but our heroine circulated her opinion in whispers, and every one was prepared to laugh at the pattern wife, the original Griselda revived, as Mrs. Nettleby sarcastically called her.

Mrs. Granby was announced. The buzz was hushed and the titter suppressed; affected gravity appeared in every countenance, and all eyes turned with malicious curiosity upon the bride as she entered.—The timidity of Emma’s first appearance was so free both from awkwardness and affectation, that it interested at least every gentleman present in her favour. Surrounded by strangers, but quite unsuspicious that they were prepared to consider her as an object of ridicule or satire, she won her way to the lady of the house, to whom she addressed herself as to a friend.

“Is not she quite a different person from what you had expected?” whispered one of the ladies to her neighbour, as Emma passed. Her manner seemed to solicit indulgence rather than to provoke envy. She was very sorry to find that the company had been waiting for her; she had been detained by the sudden illness of Mr. Granby’s mother.

Whilst Emma was making this apology, some of the audience observed that she had a remarkably sweet voice; others discovered that there was something extremely feminine in her person. A gentleman, who saw that she was distressed at the idea of being seated in the conspicuous place to which she was destined by the lady of the house, got up, and offered his seat, which she most thankfully accepted.

“Oh, my dear Mrs. Granby, I cannot possibly allow you to sit there,” cried the lady of the house. “You must have the honours of the day,” added she, seizing Emma’s hand to conduct her to the place of honour.

“Pray excuse me,” said Mrs. Granby, “honours are so little suited to me: I am perfectly well here.”

“But with that window at your back, my dear madam!” said Mrs. Nettleby.

“I do not feel the slightest breath of air. But perhaps I crowd these ladies.”

“Not in the least, not in the least,” said the ladies, who were on each side of her: they were won by the irresistible gentleness of Emma’s manner. Our heroine was vexed to be obliged to give up her point; and relinquishing Mrs. Granby’s hand, returned to her own seat, and said in a harsh tone to her husband,

“Well! my dear, if we are to have any reading to-night, you had better begin.”

The reading began; and Emma was so completely absorbed, that she did not perceive that most of the audience were intent upon her. Those who act any part may be ridiculous in the playing it, but those are safe from the utmost malignity of criticism who are perfectly unconscious that they have any part to perform. Emma had been abashed at her first appearance in an assembly of strangers, and concerned by the idea that she had kept them waiting; but as soon as this embarrassment passed over, her manners resumed their natural ease—a degree of ease which surprised her judges, and which arose from the persuasion that she was not of sufficient consequence to attract attention. Our heroine was provoked by the sight of this insolent tranquillity, and was determined that it should not long continue. The reader came to the promise which Gualtherus exacts from his bride:—

“Well, ladies!” cried the modern Griselda, “what do you think of this?”

Shrill exclamations of various vehemence expressed with one accord the sentiments, or rather feelings, of almost all the married ladies who were present.

“Abominable! Intolerable! Insufferable! Horrible! I would rather have seen the man perish at my feet; I would rather have died: I would have remained unmarried all my life rather than have submitted to such terms.”

A few young unmarried ladies who had not spoken, or who had not been heard to speak in the din of tongues, were appealed to by the gentlemen next them. They could not be prevailed upon to pronounce any distinct opinion: they qualified, and hesitated, and softened, and equivocated, and “were not positively able to judge, for really they had never thought upon the subject.”

Upon the whole, however, it was evident that they did not betray that natural horror which pervaded the more experienced matrons. All agreed that the terms were “hard terms,” and ill expressed: some added, that only love could persuade a woman to submit to them: and some still more sentimental maidens, in a lower voice, were understood to say, that as nothing is impossible to Cupid, they might be induced to such submission; but that it must be by a degree of love which they solemnly declared they had never felt or could imagine as yet.

“For my part,” cried the modern Griselda, “I would sooner have lived an old maid to the days of Methusalem than have been so mean as to have married any man on earth upon such terms. But I know there are people who can never think ‘marriage dear-bought.’ My dear Mrs. Granby, we have not yet heard your opinion, and we should have had yours first, as bride.”

“I forgot that I was bride,” said Emma.

“Forgot! Is it possible?” cried Mrs. Nettleby: “now this is an excess of modesty of which I have no notion.”

“But for which Mr. Granby,” continued our heroine, turning to Mr. Granby, who at this moment entered the room, “ought to make his best bow. Here is your lady, sir, who has just assured us that she forgot she was a bride: bow to this exquisite humility.”

“Exquisite vanity!” cried Mr. Granby; “she knows

“She will be a singularly happy woman if she knows that this time twelvemonth,” replied our heroine, darting a reproachful look at her silent husband. “In the mean time, do let us hear Mrs. Granby speak for herself; I must have her opinion of Griselda’s promise to obey her lord, right or wrong, in all things, no reasons given, to submit in deed, and word, and look, and thought. If Mrs. Granby tells us that is her theory, we must all reform our practice.”

Every eye was fixed upon Emma, and every ear was impatient for her answer.

“I should never have imagined,” said she, smiling, “that any person’s practice could be influenced by my theory, especially as I have no theory.”

“No more humility, my dear; if you have no theory, you have an opinion of your own, I hope, and we must have a distinct answer to this simple question: Would you have made the promise that was required from Griselda?”

“No,” answered Emma; “distinctly no; for I could never have loved or esteemed the man who required such a promise.”

Disconcerted by this answer, which was the very reverse of what she expected; amazed at the modest self-possession with which the timid Emma spoke, and vexed by the symptoms of approbation which Emma’s words and voice excited, our heroine called upon her husband, in a more than usually authoritative tone, and bid him—read on.

He obeyed. Emma became again absorbed in the story, and her countenance showed how much she felt all its beauties, and all its pathos. Emma did all she could to repress her feelings; and our heroine all she could to make her and them ridiculous. But in this attempt she was unsuccessful; for many of the spectators, who at her instigation began by watching Emma’s countenance to find subject for ridicule, ended by sympathizing with her unaffected sensibility.

When the tale was ended, the modern Griselda, who was determined to oppose as strongly as possible the charms of spirit to those of sensibility, burst furiously forth into an invective against the meanness of her namesake, and the tyranny of the odious Gualtherus.

“Could you have forgiven him, Mrs. Granby? could you have forgiven the monster?”

“He repented,” said Emma; “and does not a penitent cease to be a monster?”

“Oh, I never, never would have forgiven him, penitent or not penitent; I would not have forgiven him such sins.”

“I would not have put it into his power to commit them,” said Emma.

“I confess the story never touched me in the least,” cried our heroine.

“Perhaps for the same reason that Petrarch’s friend said that he read it unmoved,” replied Mrs. Granby: “because he could not believe that such a woman as Griselda ever existed.”

“No, no, not for that reason: I believe many such poor, meek, mean-spirited creatures exist.”

Emma was at length wakened to the perception of her friend’s envy and jealousy; but—

“I cannot admire the original Griselda, or any of her imitators,” continued our heroine.

“There is no great danger of her finding imitators in these days,” said Mr. Granby. “Had Chaucer lived in our enlightened times, he would doubtless have drawn a very different character.”

The modern Griselda looked “fierce as ten furies.” Emma softened her husband’s observation by adding, “that allowance should certainly be made for poor Chaucer, if we consider the times in which he wrote. The situation and understandings of women have been so much improved since his days. Women were then slaves, now they are free. My dear,” whispered she to her husband, “your mother is not well; shall we go home?”

Emma left the room; and even Mrs. Nettleby, after she was gone, said, “Really she is not ugly when she blushes.”

“No woman is ugly when she blushes,” replied our heroine; “but, unluckily, a woman cannot always blush.”

Finding that her attempt to make Emma ridiculous had failed, and that it had really placed Mrs. Granby’s understanding, manners, and temper in a most advantageous and amiable light, Griselda was mortified beyond measure. She could scarcely bear to hear Emma’s name mentioned.

CHAPTER V.

A few days after the reading party, Griselda was invited to spend an evening at Mrs. Granby’s.

“I shall not go,” said she, throwing down the card with an air of disdain.

“I shall go,” said her husband, calmly.

“You will go, my dear!” cried she, amazed. “You will go without me?”

“Not without you, if you will be so kind as to go with me, my love,” said he.

“It is quite out of my power,” said she: “I am engaged to my friend, Mrs. Nettleby.”

“Very well, my dear,” said he; “do as you please.”

“Certainly I shall. And I am surprised, my dear, that you do not go to see Mr. John Nettleby.”

“I have no desire to see him, my dear. He is, as I have often heard you say, an obstinate fool. He is a man I dislike particularly.”

“Very possibly; but you ought to go to see him notwithstanding.”

“Why so, my dear?”

“Because he is married to a woman I like. If you had any regard for me, your own feelings would have saved you the trouble of asking that question.”

“But, my dear, should not your regard for me also suggest to you the propriety of keeping up an acquaintance with Mrs. Granby, who is married to a man I like, and who is not herself an obstinate fool?”

“I shall not enter into any discussion upon the subject,” replied our heroine; for this was one of the cases where she made it a rule never to reason. “I can only say that I have my own opinion, and that I beg to be excused from keeping up any acquaintance whatever with Mrs. Granby.”

“And I beg to be excused from keeping up any acquaintance whatever with Mr. Nettleby,” replied her husband.

“Good Heavens!” cried she, raising herself upon the sofa, on which she had been reclining, and fixing her eyes upon her husband, with unfeigned astonishment: “I do not know you this morning, my dear.”

“Possibly not, my dear,” replied he; “for hitherto you have seen only your lover; now you see your husband.”

Never did metamorphosis excite more astonishment. The lady was utterly unconscious that she had had any part in producing it—that she had herself dissolved the spell. She raged, she raved, she reasoned, in vain. Her point she could not compass. Her cruel husband persisted in his determination not to go to see Mr. John Nettleby. Absolutely astounded, she was silent. There was a truce for some hours. She renewed the attack in the evening, and ceased not hostilities for three succeeding days and nights, in reasonable hopes of wearying the enemy, still without success.

The morning rose, the great, the important day, which was to decide the fate of the visit. The contending parties met as usual at breakfast; they seemed mutually afraid of each other, and stood at bay. There was a forced calm in the gentleman’s demeanour—treacherous smiles played upon the lady’s countenance. He seemed cautious to prolong the suspension of hostilities—she fond to anticipate the victory. The name of Mrs. Granby, or of Mr. John Nettleby, was not uttered by either party, nor did either inquire where the other was to spend the evening. At dinner they met again, and preserved on this delicate subject a truly diplomatic silence; whilst on the topics foreign to their thoughts, they talked with admirable fluency: actuated by as sincere desire as ever was felt by negotiating politicians to establish peace on the broadest basis, they were, with the most perfect consideration, each other’s devoted, and most obedient humble servants. Candour, however, obliges us to confess, that though the deference on the part of the gentleman was the most unqualified and praiseworthy, the lady was superior in her inimitable air of frank cordiality. The volto sciolto was in her favour, the pensieri stretti in his. Any one but an ambassador would have been deceived by the husband; any one but a woman would have been duped by the wife.

So stood affairs when, after dinner, the high and mighty powers separated. The lady retired to her toilette. The gentleman remained with his bottle. He drank a glass of wine extraordinary. She stayed half an hour more than usual at her mirror. Arrayed for battle, our heroine repaired to the drawing-room, which she expected to find unoccupied;—the enemy had taken the field.

“Dressed, my dear?” said he.

“Ready, my love!” said she.

“Shall I ring the bell for your carriage, my dear?” said the husband.

“If you please. You go with me, my dear?” said the wife.

“I do not know where you are going, my love.”

“To Mrs. Nettleby’s of course,—and you?”

“To Mrs. Granby’s.”

The lightning flashed from Griselda’s eyes, ere he had half pronounced the words. The lightning flashed without effect.

“To Mrs. Granby’s!” cried she, in a thundering tone. “To Mrs. Granby’s!” echoed he. She fell back on the sofa, and a shower of tears ensued. Her husband walked up and down the room, rang again for the carriage, ordered it in the tone of a master. Then hummed a tune. The fair one sobbed: he continued to sing, but was out in the time. The lady’s sobs grew alarming, and threatened hysterics. He threw open the window, and approached the sofa on which she lay. She, half recovering, unclasped one bracelet; in haste to get the other off, he broke it. The footman came in to announce that the carriage was at the door. She relapsed, and seemed in danger of suffocation from her pearl necklace, which she made a faint effort to loosen from her neck.

“Send your lady’s woman instantly,” cried Griselda’s husband to the footman.

Our heroine made another attempt to untie her necklace, and looked up towards her husband with supplicating eyes. His hands trembled; he entangled the strings. It would have been all over with him if the maid had not at this instant come to his assistance. To her he resigned his perilous post; retreated precipitately; and before the enemy’s forces could rally, gained his carriage, and carried his point.

“To Mr. Granby’s!” cried he, triumphantly. Arrived there, he hurried to Mr. Granby’s room.

“Another such victory,” cried he, throwing himself into an arm-chair, “another such victory, and I am undone.”

He related all that had just passed between him and his wife.

“Another such combat,” said his friend, “and you are at peace for life.”

We hope that our readers will not, from this speech, be induced to consider Mr. Granby as an instigator of quarrels between man and wife; or, according to the plebeian but expressive apophthegm, one who would come between the bark and the tree. On the contrary, he was most desirous to secure his friend’s domestic happiness; and, if possible, to prevent the bad effects which were likely to ensue from excessive indulgence, and inordinate love of dominion. He had a high respect for our heroine’s powers, and thought that they wanted only to be well managed. The same force which, ill-directed, bursts the engine, and scatters destruction, obedient to the master-hand, answers a thousand useful purposes, and works with easy, smooth, and graceful regularity. Griselda’s husband, or, as he now deserves to have his name mentioned, Mr. Bolingbroke, roused by his friend’s representations, and perhaps by a sense of approaching danger, resolved to assume the guidance of his wife, or at least—of himself. In opposition to his sovereign lady’s will, he actually spent this evening as he pleased.

CHAPTER VI.

“You are a great deal more courageous than I am, my dear,” said Emma to her husband, after Mr. Bolingbroke had left them. “I should be very much afraid of interfering between your friend and his wife.”

“What is friendship,” said Mr. Granby, “if it will run no risks? I must run the hazard of being called a mischief-maker.”

“That is not the danger of which I was thinking,” said Emma; “though I confess that I should be weak enough to fear that a little: but what I meant to express was an apprehension of our doing harm where we most wish to do good.”

“Do you, my dear Emma, think Griselda incorrigible?”

“No, indeed,” cried Emma, with anxious emphasis; “far from it. But without thinking a person incorrigible, may we not dislike the idea of inflicting correction? I should be very sorry to be the means of giving Griselda any pain; she was my friend when we were children; I have a real regard for her, and if she does not now seem disposed to love me, that must be my fault, not hers: or if it is not my fault, call it my misfortune. At all events, I have no right to force myself upon her acquaintance. She prefers Mrs. Nettleby; I have not the false humility to say, that I think Mrs. Nettleby will prove as safe or as good a friend as I hope I should he. But of this Mrs. Bolingbroke has a right to judge. And I am sure, far from resenting her resolution to avoid my acquaintance, my only feeling about it, at this instant, is the dread that it should continue to be a matter of dispute between her and her husband.”

“If Mr. Bolingbroke insisted, or if I advised him to insist upon his wife’s coming here, when she does not like it,” said Mr. Granby, “I should act absurdly, and he would act unjustly; but all that he requires is equality of rights, and the liberty of going where he pleases. She refuses to come to see you: he refuses to go to see Mr. John Nettleby. Which has the best of the battle?”

Emma thought it would be best if there were no battle; and observed, that refusals and reprisals would only irritate the parties, whose interest and happiness it was to be pacified and to agree. She said, that if Mr. Bolingbroke, instead of opposing his will to that of his wife, which, in fact, was only conquering force by force, would speak reasonably to her, probably she might be induced to yield, or to command her temper. Mrs. Granby suggested, that a compromise, founded on an offer of mutual sacrifice and mutual compliance, might be obtained. That Mr. Bolingbroke might promise to give up some of his time to the man he disliked, upon condition that Griselda should submit to the society of a woman to whom she had an aversion.

“If she consented to this,” said Emma, “I would do my best to make her like me; or at least to make her time pass agreeably at our house: her liking me is a matter of no manner of consequence.”

Emma was capable of putting herself entirely out of the question, when the interest of others was at stake; her whole desire was to conciliate, and all her thoughts were intent upon making her friends happy. She seemed to live in them more than in herself, and from sympathy arose the greatest pleasure and pain of her existence. Her sympathy was not of that useless kind which is called forth only by the elegant fictitious sorrows of a heroine of romance; hers was ready for all the occasions of real life; nor was it to be easily checked by the imperfections of those to whom she could be of service. At this moment, when she perceived that her husband was disgusted by Griselda’s caprice, she said all she could think of in her favour: she recollected every anecdote of Griselda’s childhood, which showed an amiable disposition; and argued, that it was not probable her temper should have entirely changed in a few years. Emma’s quick-sighted good-nature could discern the least portion of merit, where others could find only faults; as certain experienced eyes can discover grains of gold in the sands, which the ignorant have searched, and abandoned as useless. In consequence of Emma’s advice—for who would reject good advice, offered with so much gentleness?—Mr. Granby wrote a note to Mr. Bolingbroke, to recommend the compromise which she had suggested. Upon his return home, Mr. Bolingbroke was informed that his lady had gone to bed much indisposed; he spent a restless night, notwithstanding all his newly-acquired magnanimity. He was much relieved in the morning by his friend’s note, and blessed Emma for proposing the compromise.

CHAPTER VII.

Mr. Bolingbroke waited with impatience for Griselda’s appearance the next morning; but he waited in vain: the lady breakfasted in her own apartment, and for two hours afterwards remained in close consultation with Mrs. Nettleby, whom she had summoned the preceding night by the following note:

At this consultation, Mrs. Nettleby expressed the utmost astonishment at Mr. Bolingbroke’s strange conduct, and assured Griselda, that if she did not exert herself, all was lost, and she must give up the hope of ever having her own way again as long as she lived.

“My dear,” said she, “I have had some experience in these things; a wife must be either a tyrant or a slave: make your choice; now is your time.”

“But I never knew him say or do any thing unkind before,” said Griselda.

“Then the first offence should be properly resented. If he finds you forgiving, he will become encroaching; ‘tis the nature of man, depend upon it.”

“He always yielded to me till now,” said Griselda; “but even when I was ready to go into fits, he left me, and what could I do then?”

“You astonish me beyond expression! you who have every advantage—youth, wit, accomplishments, beauty! My dear, if you cannot keep a husband’s heart, who can ever hope to succeed?”

“Oh! as to his heart, I have no doubts of his heart, to do him justice,” said Griselda; “I know he loves me—passionately loves me.”

“And yet you cannot manage him! And you expect me to pity you? Bless me, if I had half your advantages, what I would make of them! But if you like to be a tame wife, my dear—if you are resolved upon it, tell me so at once, and I will hold my tongue.”

“I do not know well what I am resolved upon,” said Griselda, leaning her head in a melancholy posture upon her hand: “I am vexed, out of spirits, and out of sorts.”

“Out of sorts! I am not surprised at that: but out of spirits! My dear creature, you who have every thing to put you in spirits. I am never so much myself as when I have a quarrel to fight out.”

“I cannot say that is the case with me, unless where I am sure of the victory.”

“And it is your own fault if you are not always sure of it.”

“I thought so till last night; but I assure you last night he showed such a spirit!”

“Break that spirit, my dear, break it, or else it will break your heart.”

“The alternative is terrible,” said Griselda, “and more terrible perhaps than you could imagine, or I either till now: for would you believe it, I never loved him in my life half so well as I did last night in the midst of my anger, and when he was doing every thing to provoke me?”

“Very natural, my dear; because you saw him behave with spirit, and you love spirit; so does every woman; so does every body; show him that you have spirit too, and he will be as angry as you were, and love you as well in the midst of his anger, whilst you are doing every thing to provoke him.”

Griselda appeared determined to take this good advice one moment, and the next hesitated.

“But, my dear Mrs. Nettleby, did you always find this succeed yourself?”

“Yes, always.”

This lady had the reputation indeed of having broken the heart of her first husband; how she would manage her second was yet to be seen, as her honeymoon was but just over. The pure love of mischief was not her only motive in the advice which she gave to our heroine; she had, like most people, mixed motives for her conduct. She disliked Mr. Bolingbroke, because he disliked her; yet she wished that an acquaintance should be kept up between him and her husband, because Mr. Bolingbroke was a man of fortune and fashion.

Griselda promised that she would behave with that proper spirit, which was to make her at once amiable and victorious; and the friends parted.

CHAPTER VIII.

POTTER’S ÆSCHYLUS

Left to her own good genius, Griselda reflected that novelty has the most powerful effect upon the heart of man. In all the variations of her humour, her husband had never yet seen her in the sullen mood; and in this she now sat prepared to receive him. He came with an earnest desire to speak to her in the kindest and most reasonable manner. He began by saying how much it had cost him to give her one moment’s uneasiness:—his voice, his look, were those of truth and love.

Unmoved, Griselda, without raising her leaden eyes, answered in a cold voice, “I am very sorry that you should have felt any concern upon my account.”

“Any! my love; you do not know how much I have felt this night.”

She looked upon him with civil disbelief; and replied, “that she was sure she ought to be much obliged to him.”

This frigid politeness repressed his affection: he was silent for some moments.

“My dear Griselda,” said he, “this is not the way in which we should live together; we who have every thing that can make us contented: do not let us throw away our happiness for trifles not worth thinking of.”

“If we are not happy, it is not my fault,” said Griselda.

“We will not inquire whose fault it is, my dear; let the blame rest upon me: let the past be forgotten; let us look towards the future. In future, let us avoid childish altercations, and live like reasonable creatures. I have the highest opinion of your sex in general, and of you in particular; I wish to live with my wife as my equal, my friend; I do not desire that my will should govern: where our inclinations differ, let reason decide between us; or where it is a matter not worth reasoning about, let us alternately yield to one another.” He paused.

“I do not desire or expect that you should ever henceforward yield to my wishes either in trifles or in matters of consequence,” replied Griselda, with provoking meekness; “you have taught me my duty: the duty of a wife is to submit; and submit I hope I shall in future, without reply or reasoning, to your sovereign will and pleasure.”

“Nay, my dear,” said he, “do not treat me as a brutal tyrant, when I wish to do every thing in my power to make you happy. Use your own excellent understanding, and I shall always, I hope, be inclined to yield to your reasons.”

“I shall never trouble you with my reasons; I shall never use my own understanding in the least: I know that men cannot bear understanding in women; I shall always, as it is my duty, submit to your better judgment.”

“But, my love, I do not require duty from you; this sort of blind submission would be mortifying, instead of gratifying to me, from a wife.”

“I do not know what a wife can do to satisfy a husband, if submitting in every thing be not sufficient.”

“I say it would be too much for me, my dearest love!”

“I can do nothing but submit,” repeated the perverse Griselda, with a most provoking immoveable aspect of humility.

“Why will you not understand me, my dear?” cried her husband.

“It is not my fault if I cannot understand you, my dear: I do not pretend to have your understanding,” said the fair politician, affecting weakness to gain her point; like those artful candidates for papal dominion, who used to affect decrepitude and imbecility, till they secured at once absolute power and infallibility.

“I know my abilities are quite inferior to yours, my dear,” said Griselda; “but I thought it was sufficient for a woman to know how to obey; I can do no more.”

Fretted beyond his patience, her husband walked up and down the room greatly agitated, whilst she sat content and secure in tranquil obstinacy.

“You are enough to provoke the patience of Job, my dear,” cried her husband; “you’ll break my heart.”

“I am sorry for it, my dear; but if you will only tell me what I can do more to please you, I will do it.”

“Then, my love,” cried he, taking hold of her white hand, which hung in a lifeless attitude over the arm of the couch, “be happy, I conjure you! all I ask of you is to be happy.”

“That is out of my power,” said she, mildly, suffering her husband to keep her hand, as if it was an act of duty to submit to his caresses. He resigned her hand; her countenance never varied; if she had been slave to the most despotic sultan of the East, she could not have shown more utter submission than she displayed to this most indulgent European “husband lover.”

Unable to command his temper, or to conceal how much he was hurt, he rose and said, “I will leave you for the present, my dear; some time when you are better disposed to converse with me, I will return.”

“Whenever you please, sir; all times are alike to me: whenever you are at leisure, I can have no choice.”

CHAPTER IX.

Some hours afterwards, hoping to find his sultana in a better humour, Mr. Bolingbroke returned; but no sooner did he approach the sofa on which she was still seated, than she again seemed to turn into stone, like the Princess Rhezzia, in the Persian Tales; who was blooming and charming, except when her husband entered the room. The unfortunate Princess Rhezzia loved her husband tenderly, but was doomed to this fate by a vile enchanter. If she was more to be pitied for being subject to involuntary metamorphosis, our heroine is surely more to be admired, for the constancy with which she endured a self-inflicted penance; a penance calculated to render her odious in the eyes of her husband.

“My dear,” said this most patient of men, “I am sorry to renew any ideas that will be disagreeable to you; I will mention the subject but once more, and then let it be forgotten for ever—our foolish dispute about Mr. Nettleby. Let us compromise the matter. I will bear Mr. John Nettleby for your sake, if you will bear Mrs. Granby for mine. I will go to see Mr. Nettleby to-morrow, if you will come the day afterwards with me to Mr. Granby’s. Where husband and wife do not agree in their wishes, it is reasonable that each should yield a little of their will to the other. I hope this compromise will satisfy you, my dear.”

“It does not become a wife to enter into any compromise with her husband; she has nothing to do but to obey, as soon as he signifies his pleasure. I shall go to Mr. Granby’s on Tuesday, as you command.”

“Command! my love.”

“As you—whatever you please to call it.”

“But are you satisfied with this arrangement, my dear?”

“It is no manner of consequence whether I am or not.”

“To me, you know, it is of the greatest: you must be sensible that my sincere wish is to make you happy: I give you some proof of it by consenting to keep up an acquaintance with a man whose company I dislike.”

“I am much obliged to you, my dear; but as to your going to see Mr. John Nettleby, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me; I only just mentioned it as a thing of course; I beg you will not do it on my account: I hope you will do whatever you think best and what pleases yourself, upon this and every other occasion. I shall never more presume to offer my advice.”

Nothing more could be obtained from the submissive wife; she went to Mr. Granby’s; she was all duty, for she knew the show of it was the most provoking thing upon earth to a husband, at least to such a husband as hers. She therefore persisted in this line of conduct, till she made her victim at last exclaim—

His fair one was much flattered by this confession; she triumphed in having excited “this contrariety of feelings;” nor did she foresee the possibility of her husband’s recollecting that stanza which the school-boy, more philosophical than the poet, applies to his tyrant.

Whilst our heroine was thus acting to perfection the part of a dutiful wife, Mrs. Nettleby was seconding her to the best of her abilities, and announcing her amongst all their acquaintance, in the interesting character of—“a woman that is very much to be pitied.”

“Poor Mrs. Bolingbroke!—Don’t you think, ma’am, she is very much changed since her marriage?—Quite fallen away!—and all her fine spirits, what are become of them?—It really grieves my heart to see her.—Oh, she is a very unhappy woman!! really to be pitied, if you knew but all.”

Then a significant nod, or a melancholy mysterious look, set the imagination of the company at work; or, if this did not succeed, a whisper in plain terms pronounced Mr. Bolingbroke “a sad sort of husband, a very odd-tempered man, and, in short, a terrible tyrant; though nobody would guess it, who only saw him in company: but men are such deceivers!”

Mr. Bolingbroke soon found that all his wishes were thwarted, and all his hopes of happiness crossed, by the straws which this evil-minded dame contrived to throw in his way. Her influence over his wife he saw increased every hour: though they visited each other every day, these ladies could never meet without having some important secrets to impart, and conspiracies were to be performed in private, at which a husband could not be permitted to assist. Then notes without number were to pass continually, and these were to be thrown hastily into the fire at the approach of the enemy. Mr. Bolingbroke determined to break this league, which seemed to be more a league of hatred than of amity.—The London winter was now over, and, taking advantage of the continuance of his wife’s perverse fit of duty and unqualified submission, he one day requested her to accompany him into the country, to spend a few weeks with his friend Mr. Granby, at his charming place in Devonshire. The part of a wife was to obey, and Griselda was bound to support her character. She resolved, however, to make her obedience cost her lord as dear as possible, and she promised herself that this party of pleasure should become a party of pain. She and her lord were to travel in the same carriage with Mr. and Mrs. Granby. Griselda had only time, before she set off, to write a hasty billet to Mrs. Nettleby, to inform her of these intentions, and to bid her adieu till better times. Mrs. Nettleby sincerely regretted this interruption of their hourly correspondence; for she was deprived not only of the pleasure of hearing, but of making matrimonial complaints. She had now been married two months; and her fool began to grow restive; no animal on earth is more restive than a fool: but, confident that Mrs. Nettleby will hold the bridle with a strong hand, we leave her to pull against his hard mouth.