Mrs. Tremain

"Mrs. Tremain" by Robert Barr is a captivating novella that explores themes of love, loss, and the complexities of human relationships. Set in a Victorian context, the story follows the titular character, Mrs. Tremain, as she navigates her life amid societal expectations and personal desires. Through rich characterization and a nuanced portrayal of emotional struggles, Barr delves into the intricacies of her experiences, ultimately revealing deeper insights into the human condition. With a blend of wit and poignancy, the novella offers a thought-provoking look at the challenges faced by women in a restrictive society.

• Travel

								
“And Woman, wit a flaming torch
    Sings heedless, in a powder-mine
Her careless smiles they warp and scorch
    Man’s heart, as fire the pine
Cuts keener than the thrust of lance
                    Her glance”

The trouble about this story is that it really has no ending. Taking an
ocean voyage is something like picking up an interesting novel, and
reading a chapter in the middle of it. The passenger on a big steamer
gets glimpses of other people’s lives, but he doesn’t know what the
beginning was, nor what the ending will be.

The last time I saw Mrs. Tremain she was looking over her shoulder and
smiling at Glendenning as she walked up the gangway plank at Liverpool,
hanging affectionately on the arm of her husband. I said to myself at
the time, “You silly little handsome idiot, Lord only knows what
trouble you will cause before flirting has lost its charm for you.”
Personally I would like to have shoved Glendenning off the gangway
plank into the dark Mersey; but that would have been against the laws
of the country on which we were then landing.

Mrs. Tremain was a woman whom other women did not like, and whom men
did. Glendenning was a man that the average man detested, but he was a
great favourite with the ladies.

I shall never forget the sensation Mrs. Tremain caused when she first
entered the saloon of our steamer. I wish I were able to describe
accurately just how she was dressed; for her dress, of course, had a
great deal to do with her appearance, notwithstanding the fact that she
was one of the loveliest women I ever saw in my life. But it would
require a woman to describe her dress with accuracy, and I am afraid
any woman who was on board the steamer that trip would decline to help
me. Women were in the habit of sniffing when Mrs. Tremain’s name was
mentioned. Much can be expressed by a woman’s sniff. All that I can say
about Mrs. Tremain’s dress is that it was of some dark material,
brightly shot with threads of gold, and that she had looped in some way
over her shoulders and around her waist a very startlingly coloured
silken scarf, while over her hair was thrown a black lace arrangement
that reached down nearly to her feet, giving her a half-Spanish
appearance. A military-looking gentleman, at least twice her age, was
walking beside her. He was as grave and sober as she appeared light and
frivolous, and she walked by his side with a peculiar elastic step,
that seemed hardly to touch the carpet, laughing and talking to him
just as if fifty pair of eyes were not riveted upon her as the pair
entered. Everybody thought her a Spanish woman; but, as it turned out
afterward, she was of Spanish-Mexican-American origin, and whatever
beauty there is in those three nationalities seemed to be blended in
some subtle, perfectly indescribable way in the face and figure of Mrs.
Tremain.

The grave military-looking gentleman at her side was Captain Tremain,
her husband, although in reality he was old enough to be her father. He
was a captain in the United States army, and had been stationed at some
fort near the Mexican border where he met the young girl whom he made
his wife. She had seen absolutely nothing of the world, and they were
now on their wedding trip to Europe, the first holiday he had taken for
many a year.

In an incredibly short space of time Mrs. Tremain was the acknowledged
belle of the ship. She could not have been more than nineteen or twenty
years of age, yet she was as perfectly at her ease, and as thoroughly a
lady as if she had been accustomed to palaces and castles for years. It
was astonishing to see how naturally she took to it. She had lived all
her life in a rough village in the wilds of the South-West, yet she had
the bearing of a duchess or a queen.

The second day out she walked the deck with the captain, which, as
everybody knows, is a very great honour. She always had a crowd of men
around her, and apparently did not care the snap of her pretty fingers
whether a woman on board spoke to her or not. Her husband was one of
those slow-going, sterling men whom you meet now and again, with no
nonsense about him, and with a perfect trust in his young wife. He was
delighted to see her enjoying her voyage so well, and proud of the
universal court that was paid to her. It was quite evident to everybody
on board but himself that Mrs. Tremain was a born coquette, and the way
she could use those dark, languishing, Spanish-Mexican eyes of hers was
a lesson to flirts all the world over. It didn’t, apparently, so much
matter as long as her smiles were distributed pretty evenly over the
whole masculine portion of the ship. But by-and-by things began to
simmer down until the smiles were concentrated on the most utterly
objectionable man on board—Glendenning. She walked the deck with him,
she sat in cozy corners of the saloon with him, when there were not
many people there, and at night they placed their chairs in a little
corner of the deck where the electric light did not shine. One by one
the other admirers dropped off, and left her almost entirely to
Glendenning.

Of all those of us who were deserted by Mrs. Tremain none took it so
hard as young Howard of Brooklyn. I liked Howard, for he was so
palpably and irretrievably young, through no fault of his own, and so
thoroughly ashamed of it. He wished to be considered a man of the
world, and he had grave opinions on great questions, and his opinions
were ever so much more settled and firm than those of us older people.

Young Howard confided a good deal in me, and even went so far one time
as to ask if I thought he appeared very young, and if I would believe
he was really as old as he stated.

I told him frankly I had taken him to be a very much older man than
that, and the only thing about him I didn’t like was a certain cynicism
and knowledge of the world which didn’t look well in a man who ought to
be thinking about the serious things of life. After this young Howard
confided in me even more than before. He said that he didn’t care for
Mrs. Tremain in that sort of way at all. She was simply an innocent
child, with no knowledge of the world whatever, such as he and I
possessed. Her husband—and in this I quite agreed with him—had two bad
qualities: in the first place he was too easy going at the present, and
in the second place he was one of those quiet men who would do
something terrible if once he were aroused.

One day, as young Howard and I walked the deck together, he burst out
with this extraordinary sentiment—

“All women,” he said, “are canting hypocrites.”

“When a man says that,” I answered, “he means some particular woman.
What woman have you in your eye, Howard?”

“No, I mean all women. All the women on board this boat, for
instance.”

“Except one, of course,” I said.

“Yes,” he answered, “except one. Look at the generality of women,” he
cried bitterly; “especially those who are what they call philanthropic
and good. They will fuss and mourn over some drunken wretch who cannot
be reclaimed, and would be no use if he could, and they will spend

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