The Palliser Novels
Chapter 224 : "Get Round Him"Ferdinand Lopez maintained his anger against his wife for mor

"Get Round Him"

Ferdinand Lopez maintained his anger against his wife for more than a week after the scene at Richmond, feeding it with reflections on what he called her disobedience. Nor was it a make-believe anger. She had declared her intention to act in opposition to his expressed orders. He felt that his present condition was prejudicial to his interests, and that he must take his wife back into favour, in order that he might make progress with her father, but could hardly bring himself to swallow his wrath. He thought that it was her duty to obey him in everything, - and that disobedience on a matter touching her old lover was an abominable offence, to be visited with severest marital displeasure, and with a succession of scowls that should make her miserable for a month at least. Nor on her behalf would he have hesitated, though the misery might have continued for three months. But then the old man was the main hope of his life, and must be made its mainstay. Brilliant prospects were before him. He had used to think that Mr. Wharton was a hale man, with some terribly vexatious term of life before him. But now, now that he was seen more closely, he appeared to be very old. He would sit half bent in the arm-chair in Stone Buildings, and look as though he were near a hundred. And from day to day he seemed to lean more upon his son-in-law, whose visits to him were continued, and always well taken. The constant subject of discourse between them was Everett Wharton, who had not yet seen his father since the misfortune of their quarrel. Everett had declared to Lopez a dozen times that he would go to his father if his father wished it, and Lopez as often reported to the father that Everett would not go to him unless the father expressed such a wish. And so they had been kept apart. Lopez did not suppose that the old man would disinherit his son altogether, - did not, perhaps, wish it. But he thought that the condition of the old man's mind would affect the part.i.tion of his property, and that the old man would surely make some new will in the present state of his affairs. The old man always asked after his daughter, begging that she would come to him, and at last it was necessary that an evening should be fixed. "We shall be delighted to come to-day or to-morrow," Lopez said.

"We had better say to-morrow. There would be nothing to eat to-day. The house isn't now what it used to be." It was therefore expedient that Lopez should drop his anger when he got home, and prepare his wife to dine in Manchester Square in a proper frame of mind.

Her misery had been extreme; - very much more bitter than he had imagined. It was not only that his displeasure made her life for the time wearisome, and robbed the only society she had of all its charms. It was not only that her heart was wounded by his anger. Those evils might have been short-lived. But she had seen, - she could not fail to see, - that his conduct was unworthy of her and of her deep love. Though she struggled hard against the feeling, she could not but despise the meanness of his jealousy. She knew thoroughly well that there had been no grain of offence in that letter from Arthur Fletcher, - and she knew that no man, no true man, would have taken offence at it. She tried to quench her judgment, and to silence the verdict which her intellect gave against him, but her intellect was too strong even for her heart. She was beginning to learn that the G.o.d of her idolatry was but a little human creature, and that she should not have wors.h.i.+pped at so poor a shrine. But nevertheless the love should be continued, and, if possible, the wors.h.i.+p, though the idol had been already found to have feet of clay. He was her husband, and she would be true to him. As morning after morning he left her, still with that harsh, unmanly frown upon his face, she would look up at him with entreating eyes, and when he returned would receive him with her fondest smile.

At length he, too, smiled. He came to her after that interview with Mr. Wharton and told her, speaking with the soft yet incisive voice which she used to love so well, that they were to dine in the Square on the following day. "Let there be an end of all this," he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her. Of course she did not tell him that "all this" had sprung from his ill-humour and not from hers. "I own I have been angry," he continued. "I will say nothing more about it now; but that man did vex me."

"I have been so sorry that you should have been vexed."

"Well; - let it pa.s.s away. I don't think your father is looking very well."

"He is not ill?"

"Oh no. He feels the loss of your society. He is so much alone. You must be more with him."

"Has he not seen Everett yet?"

"No. Everett is not behaving altogether well." Emily was made unhappy by this and showed it. "He is the best fellow in the world. I may safely say there is no other man whom I regard so warmly as I do your brother. But he takes wrong ideas into his head, and nothing will knock them out. I wonder what your father has done about his will."

"I have not an idea. Nothing you may be sure will make him unjust to Everett."

"Ah! - You don't happen to know whether he ever made a will?"

"Not at all. He would be sure to say nothing about it to me, - or to anybody."

"That is a kind of secrecy which I think wrong. It leads to so much uncertainty. You wouldn't like to ask him?"

"No; - certainly."

"It is astonis.h.i.+ng to me how afraid you are of your father. He hasn't any land, has he?"

"Land!"

"Real estate. You know what I mean. He couldn't well have landed property without your knowing it." She shook her head. "It might make an immense difference to us, you know."

"Why so?"

"If he were to die without a will, any land, - houses and that kind of property, - would go to Everett. I never knew a man who told his children so little. I want to make you understand these things. You and I will be badly off if he doesn't do something for us."

"You don't think he is really ill?"

"No; - not ill. Men above seventy are apt to die, you know."

"Oh, Ferdinand, - what a way to talk of it!"

"Well, my love, the thing is so seriously matter-of-fact, that it is better to look at it in a matter-of-fact way. I don't want your father to die."

"I hope not. I hope not."

"But I should be very glad to learn what he means to do while he lives. I want to get you into sympathy with me in this matter; - but it is so difficult."

"Indeed I sympathise with you."

"The truth is he has taken an aversion to Everett."

"G.o.d forbid!"

"I am doing all I can to prevent it. But if he does throw Everett over we ought to have the advantage of it. There is no harm in saying as much as that. Think what it would be if he should take it into his head to leave his money to hospitals. My G; fancy what my condition would be if I were to hear of such a will as that! If he destroyed an old will, partly because he didn't like our marriage, and partly in anger against Everett, and then died without making another, the property would be divided, - unless he had bought land. You see how many dangers there are. Oh dear! I can look forward and see myself mad, - or else see myself so proudly triumphant!" All this horrified her, but he did not see her horror. He knew that she disliked it, but thought that she disliked the trouble, and that she dreaded her father. "Now I do think that you could help me a little," he continued.

"What can I do?"

"Get round him when he's a little down in the mouth. That is the way in which old men are conquered." How utterly ignorant he was of the very nature of her mind and disposition! To be told by her husband that she was to "get round" her father! "You should see him every day. He would be delighted if you would go to him at his chambers. Or you could take care to be in the Square when he comes home. I don't know whether we had not better leave this and go and live near him. Would you mind that?"

"I would do anything you would suggest as to living anywhere."

"But you won't do anything I suggest as to your father."

"As to being with him, if I thought he wished it, - though I had to walk my feet off, I would go to him."

"There's no need of hurting your feet. There's the brougham."

"I do so wish, Ferdinand, you would discontinue the brougham. I don't at all want it. I don't at all dislike cabs. And I was only joking about walking. I walk very well."

"Certainly not. You fail altogether to understand my ideas about things. If things were going bad with us, I would infinitely prefer getting a pair of horses for you to putting down the one you have." She certainly did not understand his ideas. "Whatever we do we must hold our heads up. I think he is coming round to cotton to me. He is very close, but I can see that he likes my going to him. Of course, as he grows older from day to day, he'll constantly want some one to lean on more than heretofore."

"I would go and stay with him if he wanted me."

"I have thought of that too. Now that would be a saving, - without any fall. And if we were both there we could hardly fail to know what he was doing. You could offer that, couldn't you? You could say as much as that?"

"I could ask him if he wished it."

"Just so. Say that it occurs to you that he is lonely by himself, and that we will both go to the Square at a moment's notice if he thinks it will make him comfortable. I feel sure that that will be the best step to take. I have already had an offer for these rooms, and could get rid of the things we have bought to advantage."

This, too, was terrible to her, and at the same time altogether unintelligible. She had been invited to buy little treasures to make their home comfortable, and had already learned to take that delight in her belongings which is one of the greatest pleasures of a young married woman's life. A girl in her old home, before she is given up to a husband, has many sources of interest, and probably from day to day sees many people. And the man just married goes out to his work, and occupies his time, and has his thickly-peopled world around him. But the bride, when the bridal honours of the honeymoon are over, when the sweet care of the first cradle has not yet come to her, is apt to be lonely and to be driven to the contemplation of the pretty things with which her husband and her friends have surrounded her. It had certainly been so with this young bride, whose husband left her in the morning and only returned for their late dinner. And now she was told that her household G.o.ds had had a price put upon them and that they were to be sold. She had intended to suggest that she would pay her father a visit, and her husband immediately proposed that they should quarter themselves permanently on the old man! She was ready to give up her brougham, though she liked the comfort of it well enough; but to that he would not consent because the possession of it gave him an air of wealth; but without a moment's hesitation he could catch at the idea of throwing upon her father the burden of maintaining both her and himself! She understood the meaning of this. She could read his mind so far. She endeavoured not to read the book too closely, - but there it was, opened to her wider day by day, and she knew that the lessons which it taught were vulgar and d.a.m.nable.

And yet she had to hide from him her own perception of himself! She had to sympathise with his desires and yet to abstain from doing that which his desires demanded from her. Alas, poor girl! She soon knew that her marriage had been a mistake. There was probably no one moment in which she made the confession to herself. But the conviction was there, in her mind, as though the confession had been made. Then there would come upon her unbidden, unwelcome reminiscences of Arthur Fletcher, - thoughts that she would struggle to banish, accusing herself of some heinous crime because the thoughts would come back to her. She remembered his light wavy hair, which she had loved as one loves the beauty of a dog, which had seemed to her young imagination, to her in the ignorance of her early years, to lack something of a dreamed-of manliness. She remembered his eager, boyish, honest entreaties to herself, which to her had been without that dignity of a superior being which a husband should possess. She became aware that she had thought the less of him because he had thought the more of her. She had wors.h.i.+pped this other man because he had a.s.sumed superiority and had told her that he was big enough to be her master. But now, - now that it was all too late, - the veil had fallen from her eyes. She could now see the difference between manliness and "deportment." Ah, - that she should ever have been so blind, she who had given herself credit for seeing so much clearer than they who were her elders! And now, though at last she did see clearly, she could not have the consolation of telling any one what she had seen. She must bear it all in silence, and live with it, and still love this G.o.d of clay that she had chosen. And, above all, she must never allow herself even to think of that other man with the wavy light hair, - that man who was rising in the world, of whom all people said all good things, who was showing himself to be a man by the work he did, and whose true tenderness she could never doubt.

Her father was left to her. She could still love her father. It might be that it would be best for him that she should go back to her old home, and take care of his old age. If he should wish it, she would make no difficulty of parting with the things around her. Of what concern were the prettinesses of life to one whose inner soul was hampered with such ugliness? It might be better that they should live in Manchester Square, - if her father wished it. It was clear to her now that her husband was in urgent want of money, though of his affairs, even of his way of making money, she knew nothing. As that was the case, of course she would consent to any practicable retrenchment which he would propose. And then she thought of other coming joys and coming troubles, - of how in future years she might have to teach a girl falsely to believe that her father was a good man, and to train a boy to honest purposes whatever parental lessons might come from the other side.

But the mistake she had made was acknowledged. The man who could enjoin her to "get round" her father could never have been worthy of the love she had given him.

CHAPTER XL.

"Come and Try It"

The husband was almost jovial when he came home just in time to take his young wife to dine with their father. "I've had such a day in the city," he said, laughing. "I wish I could introduce you to my friend, Mr. s.e.xtus Parker."

"Cannot you do so?"

"Well, no; not exactly. Of course you'd like him because he is such a wonderful character, but he'd hardly do for your drawing-room. He's the vulgarest little creature you ever put your eyes on; and yet in a certain way he's my partner."

"Then I suppose you trust him?"

"Indeed I don't; - but I make him useful. Poor little s.e.xty! I do trust him to a degree, because he believes in me and thinks he can do best by sticking to me. The old saying of 'honour among thieves' isn't without a dash of truth in it. When two men are in a boat together they must be true to each other, else neither will get to the sh.o.r.e."

"You don't attribute high motives to your friend."

"I'm afraid there are not very many high motives in the world, my girl, especially in the city; - nor yet at Westminster. It can hardly be from high motives when a lot of men, thinking differently on every possible subject, come together for the sake of pay and power. I don't know whether, after all, s.e.xtus Parker mayn't have as high motives as the Duke of Omnium. I don't suppose any one ever had lower motives than the d.u.c.h.ess when she chiselled me about Silverbridge. Never mind; - it'll all be one a hundred years hence. Get ready, for I want you to be with your father a little before dinner."

Then, when they were in the brougham together, he began a course of very plain instructions. "Look here, dear; you had better get him to talk to you before dinner. I dare say Mrs. Roby will be there, and I will get her on one side. At any rate you can manage it because we shall be early, and I'll take up a book while you are talking to him."

"What do you wish me to say to him, Ferdinand?"

"I have been thinking of your own proposal, and I am quite sure that we had better join him in the Square. The thing is, I am in a little mess about the rooms, and can't stay on without paying very dearly for them."

"I thought you had paid for them."

"Well; - yes; in one sense I had; but you don't understand about business. You had better not interrupt me now as I have got a good deal to say before we get to the Square. It will suit me to give up the rooms. I don't like them, and they are very dear. As you yourself said, it will be a capital thing for us to go and stay with your father."

"I meant only for a visit."

"It will be for a visit, - and we'll make it a long visit." It was odd that the man should have been so devoid of right feeling himself as not to have known that the ideas which he expressed were revolting! "You can sound him. Begin by saying that you are afraid he is desolate. He told me himself that he was desolate, and you can refer to that. Then tell him that we are both of us prepared to do anything that we can to relieve him. Put your arm over him, and kiss him, and all that sort of thing." She shrunk from him into the corner of the brougham, and yet he did not perceive it. "Then say that you think he would be happier if we were to join him here for a time. You can make him understand that there would be no difficulty about the apartments. But don't say it all in a set speech, as though it were prepared, - though of course you can let him know that you have suggested it to me and that I am willing. Be sure to let him understand that the idea began with you."

"But it did not."

"You proposed to go and stay with him. Tell him just that. And you should explain to him that he can dine at the club just as much as he likes. When you were alone with him here, of course he had to come home; but he needn't do that now unless he chooses. Of course the brougham would be my affair. And if he should say anything about sharing the house expenses, you can tell him that I would do anything he might propose." Her father to share the household expenses in his own house, and with his own children! "You say as much as you can of all this before dinner, so that when we are sitting below he may suggest it if he pleases. It would suit me to get in there next week if possible."

And so the lesson had been given. She had said little or nothing in reply, and he had only finished as they entered the Square. She had hardly a minute allowed her to think how far she might follow, and in what she must ignore, her husband's instructions. If she might use her own judgment she would tell her father at once that a residence for a time beneath his roof would be a service to them pecuniarily. But this she might not do. She understood that her duty to her husband did forbid her to proclaim his poverty in opposition to his wishes. She would tell nothing that he did not wish her to tell, - but then no duty could require her to say what was false. She would make the suggestion about their change of residence, and would make it with proper affection; - but as regarded themselves she would simply say that it would suit their views to give up their rooms if it suited him.

Mr. Wharton was all alone when they entered the drawing-room, - but, as Lopez had surmised, had asked his sister-in-law round the corner to come to dinner. "Roby always likes an excuse to get to his club," said the old man, "and Harriet likes an excuse to go anywhere." It was not long before Lopez began to play his part by seating himself close to the open window and looking out into the Square; and Emily when she found herself close to her father, with her hand in his, could hardly divest herself of a feeling that she also was playing her part. "I see so very little of you," said the old man plaintively.

"I'd come up oftener if I thought you'd like it."

"It isn't liking, my dear. Of course you have to live with your husband. Isn't this sad about Everett?"

"Very sad. But Everett hasn't lived here for ever so long."

"I don't know why he shouldn't. He was a fool to go away when he did. Does he go to you?"

"Yes; - sometimes."

"And what does he say?"

"I'm sure he would be with you at once if you would ask him."

"I have asked him. I've sent word by Lopez over and over again. If he means that I am to write to him and say that I'm sorry for offending him, I won't. Don't talk of him any more. It makes me so angry that I sometimes feel inclined to do things which I know I should repent when dying."

"Not anything to injure Everett, papa!"

"I wonder whether he ever thinks that I am an old man and all alone, and that his brother-in-law is daily with me. But he's a fool, and thinks of nothing. I know it is very sad being here night after night by myself." Mr. Wharton forgot, no doubt, at the moment, that he pa.s.sed the majority of his evenings at the Eldon, - though, had he been reminded of it, he might have declared with perfect truth that the delights of his club were not satisfactory.

"Papa," said Emily, "would you like us to come and live here?"

"What, - you and Lopez; - here, in the Square?"

"Yes; - for a time. He is thinking of giving up the place in Belgrave Mansions."

"I thought he had them for - for ever so many months."

"He does not like them, and they are expensive, and he can give them up. If you would wish it, we would come here, - for a time." He turned round and looked at her almost suspiciously; and she, - she blushed as she remembered how accurately she was obeying her husband's orders. "It would be such a joy to me to be near you again."

There was something in her voice which instantly rea.s.sured him. "Well - ;" he said; "come and try it if it will suit him. The house is big enough. It will ease his pocket and be a comfort to me. Come and try it."

It astonished her that the thing should be done so easily. Here was all that her husband had proposed to arrange by deep diplomacy settled in three words. And yet she felt ashamed of herself, - as though she had taken her father in. That terrible behest to "get round him" still grated on her ears. Had she got round him? Had she cheated him into this? "Papa," she said, "do not do this unless you feel sure that you will like it."

"How is anybody to feel sure of anything, my dear?"

"But if you doubt, do not do it."

"I feel sure of one thing, that it will be a great saving to your husband, and I am nearly sure that that ought not to be a matter of indifference to him. There is plenty of room here, and it will at any rate be a comfort to me to see you sometimes." Just at this moment Mrs. Roby came in, and the old man began to tell his news aloud. "Emily has not gone away for long. She's coming back like a bad s.h.i.+lling."

"Not to live in the Square?" said Mrs. Roby, looking round at Lopez.

"Why not? There's room here for them, and it will be just as well to save expense. When will you come, my dear?"

"Whenever the house may be ready, papa."

"It's ready now. You ought to know that. I am not going to refurnish the rooms for you, or anything of that kind. Lopez can come in and hang up his hat whenever it pleases him."

During this time Lopez had hardly known how to speak or what to say. He had been very anxious that his wife should pave the way, as he would have called it. He had been urgent with her to break the ice to her father. But it had not occurred to him that the matter would be settled without any reference to himself. Of course he had heard every word that had been spoken, and was aware that his own poverty had been suggested as the cause for such a proceeding. It was a great thing for him in every way. He would live for nothing, and would also have almost unlimited power of being with Mr. Wharton as old age grew on him. This ready compliance with his wishes was a benefit far too precious to be lost. But yet he felt that his own dignity required some reference to himself. It was distasteful to him that his father-in-law should regard him, - or, at any rate, that he should speak of him, - as a pauper, unable to provide a home for his own wife. "Emily's notion in suggesting it, sir," he said, "has been her care for your comfort." The barrister turned round and looked at him, and Lopez did not quite like the look. "It was she thought of it first, and she certainly had no other idea than that. When she mentioned it to me, I was delighted to agree."

Emily heard it all and blushed. It was not absolutely untrue in words, - this a.s.sertion of her husband's, - but altogether false in spirit. And yet she could not contradict him. "I don't see why it should not do very well, indeed," said Mrs. Roby.

"I hope it may," said the barrister. "Come, Emily, I must take you down to dinner to-day. You are not at home yet, you know. As you are to come, the sooner the better."

During dinner not a word was said on the subject. Lopez exerted himself to be pleasant, and told all that he had heard as to the difficulties of the Cabinet. Sir Orlando had resigned, and the general opinion was that the Coalition was going to pieces. Had Mr. Wharton seen the last article in the "People's Banner" about the Duke? Lopez was strongly of the opinion that Mr. Wharton ought to see that article. "I never had the 'People's Banner' within my fingers in my life," said the barrister angrily, "and I certainly never will."

"Ah, sir; this is an exception. You should see this. When Slide really means to cut a fellow up, he can do it. There's no one like him. And the Duke has deserved it. He's a poor, vacillating creature, led by the d.u.c.h.ess; and she, - according to all that one hears, - she isn't much better than she should be."