MRS. FURNIVAL CAN'T PUT UP WITH IT.
When Lady Mason last left the chambers of her lawyer in Lincoln's
Inn, she was watched by a stout lady as she passed through the narrow
passage leading from the Old to the New Square. That fact will I
trust be remembered, and I need hardly say that the stout lady was
Mrs. Furnival. She had heard betimes of the arrival of that letter
with the Hamworth post-mark, had felt assured that it was written by
the hands of her hated rival, and had at once prepared for action.
"I shall leave this house to-day,--immediately after breakfast," she
said to Miss Biggs, as they sat disconsolately at the table with the
urn between them.
"And I think you will be quite right, my dear," replied Miss Biggs.
"It is your bounden duty to put down such wicked iniquity as
this;--not only for your own sake, but for that of morals in general.
What in the world is there so beautiful and so lovely as a high tone
of moral sentiment?" To this somewhat transcendental question Mrs.
Furnival made no reply. That a high tone of moral sentiment as a
thing in general, for the world's use, is very good, she was no doubt
aware; but her mind at the present moment was fixed exclusively on
her own peculiar case. That Tom Furnival should be made to give up
seeing that nasty woman who lived at Hamworth, and to give up also
having letters from her,--that at present was the extent of her moral
sentiment. His wicked iniquity she could forgive with a facility
not at all gratifying to Miss Biggs, if only she could bring about
such a result as that. So she merely grunted in answer to the above
proposition.
"And will you sleep away from this?" asked Miss Biggs.
"Certainly I will. I will neither eat here, nor sleep here, nor stay
here till I know that all this is at an end. I have made up my mind
what I will do."
"Well?" asked the anxious Martha.
"Oh, never mind. I am not exactly prepared to talk about it. There
are things one can't talk about,--not to anybody. One feels as though
one would burst in mentioning it. I do, I know."
Martha Biggs could not but feel that this was hard, but she knew that
friendship is nothing if it be not long enduring. "Dearest Kitty!"
she exclaimed. "If true sympathy can be of service to you--"
"I wonder whether I could get respectable lodgings in the
neighbourhood of Red Lion Square for a week?" said Mrs. Furnival,
once more bringing the conversation back from the abstract to the
concrete.
In answer to this Miss Biggs of course offered the use of her own
bedroom and of her father's house; but her father was an old man, and
Mrs. Furnival positively refused to agree to any such arrangement. At
last it was decided that Martha should at once go off and look for
lodgings in the vicinity of her own home, that Mrs. Furnival should
proceed to carry on her own business in her own way,--the cruelty
being this, that she would not give the least hint as to what that
way might be,--and that the two ladies should meet together in the
Red Lion Square drawing-room at the close of the day.
"And about dinner, dear?" asked Miss Biggs.
"I will get something at a pastrycook's," said Mrs. Furnival.
"And your clothes, dear?"
"Rachel will see about them; she knows." Now Rachel was the old
female servant of twenty years' standing; and the disappointment
experienced by poor Miss Biggs at the ignorance in which she was left
was greatly enhanced by a belief that Rachel knew more than she did.
Mrs. Furnival would tell Rachel but would not tell her. This was
very, very hard, as Miss Biggs felt. But, nevertheless, friendship,
sincere friendship is long enduring, and true patient merit will
generally receive at last its appropriate reward.
Then Mrs. Furnival had sat down, Martha Biggs having been duly sent
forth on the mission after the lodgings, and had written a letter to
her husband. This she intrusted to Rachel, whom she did not purpose
to remove from that abode of iniquity from which she herself was
fleeing, and having completed her letter she went out upon her own
work. The letter ran as follows:--
Harley Street--Friday.
MY DEAREST TOM,
I cannot stand this any longer, so I have thought it best
to leave the house and go away. I am very sorry to be
forced to such a step as this, and would have put up with
a good deal first; but there are some things which I
cannot put up with,--and won't. I know that a woman has
to obey her husband, and I have always obeyed you, and
thought it no hardship even when I was left so much alone;
but a woman is not to see a slut brought in under her very
nose,--and I won't put up with it. We've been married now
going on over twenty-five years, and it's terrible to
think of being driven to this. I almost believe it will
drive me mad, and then, when I'm a lunatic, of course you
can do as you please.
I don't want to have any secrets from you. Where I shall
go I don't yet know, but I've asked Martha Biggs to take
lodgings for me somewhere near her. I must have somebody
to speak to now and again, so you can write to 23 Red Lion
Square till you hear further. It's no use sending for me,
for I _won't come_;--not till I know that you think better
of your present ways of going on. I don't know whether you
have the power to get the police to come after me, but I
advise you not. If you do anything of that sort the people
about shall hear of it.
And now, Tom, I want to say one word to you. You can't
think it's a happiness to me going away from my own home
where I have lived respectable so many years, or leaving
you whom I've loved with all my whole heart. It makes me
very very unhappy, so that I could sit and cry all day if
it weren't for pride and because the servants shouldn't
see me. To think that it has come to this after all! Oh,
Tom, I wonder whether you ever think of the old days when
we used to be so happy in Keppel Street! There wasn't
anybody then that you cared to see, except me;--I do
believe that. And you'd always come home then, and I never
thought bad of it though you wouldn't have a word to speak
to me for hours. Because you were doing your duty. But you
ain't doing your duty now, Tom. You know you ain't doing
your duty when you never dine at home, and come home so
cross with wine that you curse and swear, and have that
nasty woman coming to see you at your chambers. Don't tell
me it's about law business. Ladies don't go to barristers'
chambers about law business. All that is done by
attorneys. I've heard you say scores of times that you
never would see people themselves, and yet you see her.
Oh, Tom, you have made me so wretched! But I can forgive
it all, and will never say another word about it to fret
you, if you'll only promise me to have nothing more to
say to that woman. Of course I'd like you to come home to
dinner, but I'd put up with that. You've made your own way
in the world, and perhaps it's only right you should enjoy
it. I don't think so much dining at the club can be good
for you, and I'm afraid you'll have gout, but I don't
want to bother you about that. Send me a line to say that
you won't see her any more, and I'll come back to Harley
Street at once. If you can't bring yourself to do that,
you--and--I--must--part. I can put up with a great deal,
but I can't put up with that;--_and won't_.
Your affectionate loving wife,
C. FURNIVAL.
"I wonder whether you ever think of the old days when we used to be
so happy in Keppel Street?" Ah me, how often in after life, in those
successful days when the battle has been fought and won, when all
seems outwardly to go well,--how often is this reference made to the
happy days in Keppel Street! It is not the prize that can make us
happy; it is not even the winning of the prize, though for the one
short half-hour of triumph that is pleasant enough. The struggle, the
long hot hour of the honest fight, the grinding work,--when the teeth
are set, and the skin moist with sweat and rough with dust, when all
is doubtful and sometimes desperate, when a man must trust to his own
manhood knowing that those around him trust to it not at all,--that
is the happy time of life. There is no human bliss equal to twelve
hours of work with only six hours in which to do it. And when
the expected pay for that work is worse than doubtful, the inner
satisfaction is so much the greater. Oh, those happy days in Keppel
Street, or it may be over in dirty lodgings in the Borough, or
somewhere near the Marylebone workhouse;--anywhere for a moderate
weekly stipend. Those were to us, and now are to others, and always
will be to many, the happy days of life. How bright was love, and how
full of poetry! Flashes of wit glanced here and there, and how they
came home and warmed the cockles of the heart. And the unfrequent
bottle! Methinks that wine has utterly lost its flavour since those
days. There is nothing like it; long work, grinding weary work, work
without pay, hopeless work; but work in which the worker trusts
himself, believing it to be good. Let him, like Mahomet, have one
other to believe in him, and surely nothing else is needed. "Ah me! I
wonder whether you ever think of the old days when we used to be so
happy in Keppel Street?"
Nothing makes a man so cross as success, or so soon turns a pleasant
friend into a captious acquaintance. Your successful man eats too
much and his stomach troubles him; he drinks too much and his nose
becomes blue. He wants pleasure and excitement, and roams about
looking for satisfaction in places where no man ever found it. He
frets himself with his banker's book, and everything tastes amiss to
him that has not on it the flavour of gold. The straw of an omnibus
always stinks; the linings of the cabs are filthy. There are but
three houses round London at which an eatable dinner may be obtained.
And yet a few years since how delicious was that cut of roast goose
to be had for a shilling at the eating-house near Golden Square. Mrs.
Jones and Mrs. Green, Mrs. Walker and all the other mistresses, are
too vapid and stupid and humdrum for endurance. The theatres are dull
as Lethe, and politics have lost their salt. Success is the necessary
misfortune of life, but it is only to the very unfortunate that it
comes early.
Mrs. Furnival, when she had finished her letter and fastened it, drew
one of the heavy dining-room arm-chairs over against the fire, and
sat herself down to consider her past life, still holding the letter
in her lap. She had not on that morning been very careful with her
toilet, as was perhaps natural enough. The cares of the world were
heavy on her, and he would not be there to see her. Her hair was
rough, and her face was red, and she had hardly had the patience
to make straight the collar round her neck. To the eye she was
an untidy, angry, cross-looking woman. But her heart was full of
tenderness,--full to overflowing. She loved him now as well as ever
she had loved him:--almost more as the thought of parting from
him pressed upon her! Was he not all in all to her? Had she not
worshipped him during her whole life? Could she not forgive him?
Forgive him! Yes. Forgive him with the fullest, frankest, freest
pardon, if he would only take forgiveness. Should she burn that
letter in the fire, send to Biggs saying that the lodgings were not
wanted, and then throw herself at Tom's feet, imploring him to have
mercy upon her? All that she could do within her heart, and make her
words as passionate, as soft, and as poetical as might be those of a
young wife of twenty. But she felt that such words,--though she could
frame the sentence while sitting there,--could never get themselves
spoken. She had tried it, and it had been of no avail. Not only
should she be prepared for softness, but he also must be so prepared
and at the same moment. If he should push her from him and call her
a fool when she attempted that throwing of herself at his feet, how
would it be with her spirit then? No. She must go forth and the
letter must be left. If there were any hope of union for the future
it must come from a parting for the present. So she went up stairs
and summoned Rachel, remaining with her in consultation for some
half-hour. Then she descended with her bonnet and shawl, got into a
cab while Spooner stood at the door looking very serious, and was
driven away,--whither, no one knew in Harley Street except Mrs.
Furnival herself, and that cabman.
"She'll never put her foot inside this hall door again. That's my
idea of the matter," said Spooner.
"Indeed and she will," said Rachel, "and be a happier woman than ever
she's been since the house was took."
"If I know master," said Spooner, "he's not the man to get rid of an
old woman, easy like that, and then 'ave her back agin." Upon hearing
which words, so very injurious to the sex in general, Rachel walked
into the house not deigning any further reply.
And then, as we have seen, Mrs. Furnival was there, standing in the
dark shadow of the Lincoln's Inn passage, when Lady Mason left the
lawyer's chambers. She felt sure that it was Lady Mason, but she
could not be quite sure. The woman, though she came out from the
entry which led to her husband's chambers, might have come down
from some other set of rooms. Had she been quite certain she would
have attacked her rival there, laying bodily hands upon her in the
purlieus of the Lord Chancellor's Court. As it was, the poor bruised
creature was allowed to pass by, and as she emerged out into the
light at the other end of the passage Mrs. Furnival became quite
certain of her identity.
"Never mind," she said to herself. "She sha'n't escape me long. Him
I could forgive, if he would only give it up; but as for her--! Let
what come of it, come may, I will tell that woman what I think of her
conduct before I am many hours older." Then, giving one look up to
the windows of her husband's chambers, she walked forth through the
dusty old gate into Chancery Lane, and made her way on foot up to No.
23 Red Lion Square. "I'm glad I've done it," she said to herself as
she went; "very glad. There's nothing else for it, when things come
to such a head as that." And in this frame of mind she knocked at her
friend's door.
"Well!" said Martha Biggs, with her eyes, and mouth, and arms, and
heart all open.
"Have you got me the lodgings?" said Mrs. Furnival.
"Yes, close by;--in Orange Street. I'm afraid you'll find them very
dull. And what have you done?"
"I have done nothing, and I don't at all mind their being dull. They
can't possibly be more dull than Harley Street."
"And I shall be near you; sha'n't I?" said Martha Biggs.
"Umph," said Mrs. Furnival. "I might as well go there at once and
get myself settled." So she did, the affectionate Martha of course
accompanying her; and thus the affairs of that day were over.
Her intention was to go down to Hamworth at once, and make her way
up to Orley Farm, at which place she believed that Lady Mason was
living. Up to this time she had heard no word of the coming trial
beyond what Mr. Furnival had told her as to his client's "law
business." And whatever he had so told her, she had scrupulously
disbelieved. In her mind all that went for nothing. Law business! she
was not so blind, so soft, so green, as to be hoodwinked by such
stuff as that. Beautiful widows don't have personal interviews with
barristers in their chambers over and over again, let them have what
law business they may. At any rate Mrs. Furnival took upon herself to
say that they ought not to have such interviews. She would go down to
Orley Farm and she would have an interview with Lady Mason. Perhaps
the thing might be stopped in that way.
On the following morning she received a note from her husband the
consideration of which delayed her proceedings for that day.
"DEAR KITTY," the note ran.
I think you are very foolish. If regard for me had not
kept you at home, some consideration with reference to
Sophia should have done so. What you say about that poor
lady at Orley Farm is too absurd for me to answer. If you
would have spoken to me about her, I would have told you
that which would have set your mind at rest, at any rate
as regards her. I cannot do this in a letter, nor could I
do it in the presence of your friend, Miss Biggs.
I hope you will come back at once; but I shall not add
to the absurdity of your leaving your own house by any
attempt to bring you back again by force. As you must want
money I enclose a check for fifty pounds. I hope you will
be back before you want more; but if not I will send it as
soon as you ask for it.
Yours affectionately as always,
T. FURNIVAL.
There was about this letter an absence of sentiment, and an absence
of threat, and an absence of fuss, which almost overset her. Could
it be possible that she was wrong about Lady Mason? Should she go to
him and hear his own account before she absolutely declared war by
breaking into the enemy's camp at Orley Farm? Then, moreover, she was
touched and almost overcome about the money. She wished he had not
sent it to her. That money difficulty had occurred to her, and been
much discussed in her own thoughts. Of course she could not live away
from him if he refused to make her any allowance,--at least not for
any considerable time. He had always been liberal as regards money
since money had been plenty with him, and therefore she had some
supply with her. She had jewels too which were her own; and though,
as she had already determined, she would not part with them without
telling him what she was about to do, yet she could, if pressed, live
in this way for the next twelve months;--perhaps, with close economy,
even for a longer time than that. In her present frame of mind she
had looked forward almost with gratification to being pinched and
made uncomfortable. She would wear her ordinary and more dowdy
dresses; she would spend much of her time in reading sermons; she
would get up very early and not care what she ate or drank. In short,
she would make herself as uncomfortable as circumstances would admit,
and thoroughly enjoy her grievances.
But then this check of fifty pounds, and this offer of as much more
as she wanted when that was gone, rather took the ground from under
her feet. Unless she herself chose to give way she might go on living
in Orange Street to the end of the chapter, with every material
comfort about her,--keeping her own brougham if she liked, for the
checks she now knew would come without stint. And he would go on
living in Harley street, seeing Lady Mason as often as he pleased.
Sophia would be the mistress of the house, and as long as this was
so, Lady Mason would not show her face there. Now this was not a
course of events to which Mrs. Furnival could bring herself to look
forward with satisfaction.
All this delayed her during that day, but before she went to bed she
made up her mind that she would at any rate go down to Hamworth. Tom,
she knew, was deceiving her; of that she felt morally sure. She would
at any rate go down to Hamworth, and trust to her own wit for finding
out the truth when there.