Mr. Wharton Complains
"I think you have betrayed me." This accusation was brought by Mr.
Wharton against Mrs. Roby in that lady's drawing-room, and was
occasioned by a report that had been made to the old lawyer by his
daughter. He was very angry and almost violent;--so much so that by
his manner he gave a considerable advantage to the lady whom he was
accusing.
Mrs. Roby undoubtedly had betrayed her brother-in-law. She had been
false to the trust reposed in her. He had explained his wishes to
her in regard to his daughter, to whom she had in some sort assumed
to stand in place of a mother, and she, while pretending to act in
accordance with his wishes, had directly opposed them. But it was not
likely that he would be able to prove her treachery though he might
be sure of it. He had desired that his girl should see as little as
possible of Ferdinand Lopez, but had hesitated to give a positive
order that she should not meet him. He had indeed himself taken her
to a dinner party at which he knew that she would meet him. But
Mrs. Roby had betrayed him. Since the dinner party she had arranged
a meeting at her own house on behalf of the lover,--as to which
arrangement Emily Wharton had herself been altogether innocent. Emily
had met the man in her aunt's house, not expecting to meet him, and
the lover had had an opportunity of speaking his mind freely. She
also had spoken hers freely. She would not engage herself to him
without her father's consent. With that consent she would do so,--oh,
so willingly! She did not coy her love. He might be certain that she
would give herself to no one else. Her heart was entirely his. But
she had pledged herself to her father, and on no consideration would
she break that pledge. She went on to say that after what had passed
she thought that they had better not meet. In such meetings there
could be no satisfaction, and must be much pain. But he had her
full permission to use any arguments that he could use with her
father. On the evening of that day she told her father all that had
passed,--omitting no detail either of what she had said or of what
had been said to her,--adding a positive assurance of obedience,
but doing so with a severe solemnity and apparent consciousness of
ill-usage which almost broke her father's heart. "Your aunt must have
had him there on purpose," Mr. Wharton had said. But Emily would
neither accuse nor defend her aunt. "I at least knew nothing of it,"
she said. "I know that," Mr. Wharton had ejaculated. "I know that.
I don't accuse you of anything, my dear,--except of thinking that
you understand the world better than I do." Then Emily had retired
and Mr. Wharton had been left to pass half the night in a perplexed
reverie, feeling that he would be forced ultimately to give way, and
yet certain that by doing so he would endanger his child's happiness.
He was very angry with his sister-in-law, and on the next day, early
in the morning, he attacked her. "I think you have betrayed me," he
said.
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Wharton?"
"You have had this man here on purpose that he might make love to
Emily."
"I have done no such thing. You told me yourself that they were not
to be kept apart. He comes here, and it would be very odd indeed if I
were to tell the servants that he is not to be admitted. If you want
to quarrel with me, of course you can. I have always endeavoured to
be a good friend to Emily."
"It is not being a good friend to her, bringing her and this
adventurer together."
"I don't know why you call him an adventurer. But you are so very
odd in your ideas! He is received everywhere, and is always at the
Duchess of Omnium's."
"I don't care a fig about the Duchess."
"I dare say not. Only the Duke happens to be Prime Minister, and his
house is considered to have the very best society that England, or
indeed Europe, can give. And I think it is something in a young man's
favour when it is known that he associates with such persons as the
Duke of Omnium. I believe that most fathers would have a regard to
the company which a man keeps when they think of their daughter's
marrying."
"I ain't thinking of her marrying. I don't want her to marry;--not
this man at least. And I fancy the Duchess of Omnium is just as
likely to have scamps in her drawing-room as any other lady in
London."
"And do such men as Mr. Happerton associate with scamps?"
"I don't know anything about Mr. Happerton,--and I don't care
anything about him."
"He has £20,000 a year out of his business. And does Everett
associate with scamps?"
"Very likely."
"I never knew any one so much prejudiced as you are, Mr. Wharton.
When you have a point to carry there's nothing you won't say. I
suppose it comes from being in the courts."
"The long and the short of it is this," said the lawyer; "if I find
that Emily is brought here to meet Mr. Lopez, I must forbid her to
come at all."
"You must do as you please about that. But to tell you the truth, Mr.
Wharton, I think the mischief is done. Such a girl as Emily, when she
has taken it into her head to love a man, is not likely to give him
up."
"She has promised to have nothing to say to him without my sanction."
"We all know what that means. You'll have to give way. You'll find
that it will be so. The stern parent who dooms his daughter to
perpetual seclusion because she won't marry the man he likes, doesn't
belong to this age."
"Who talks about seclusion?"
"Do you suppose that she'll give up the man she loves because you
don't like him? Is that the way girls live now-a-days? She won't run
away with him, because she's not one of that sort; but unless you're
harder-hearted than I take you to be, she'll make your life a burden
to you. And as for betraying you, that's nonsense. You've no right to
say it. I'm not going to quarrel with you whatever you may say, but
you've no right to say it."
Mr. Wharton, as he went away to Lincoln's Inn, bewailed himself
because he knew that he was not hard-hearted. What his sister-in-law
had said to him in that respect was true enough. If he could only rid
himself of a certain internal ague which made him feel that his life
was, indeed, a burden to him while his daughter was unhappy, he need
only remain passive and simply not give the permission without which
his daughter would not ever engage herself to this man. But the ague
troubled every hour of his present life. That sister-in-law of his
was a silly, vulgar, worldly, and most untrustworthy woman;--but she
had understood what she was saying.
And there had been something in that argument about the Duchess of
Omnium's parties, and Mr. Happerton, which had its effect. If the man
did live with the great and wealthy, it must be because they thought
well of him and of his position. The fact of his being a "nasty
foreigner," and probably of Jewish descent, remained. To him,
Wharton, the man must always be distasteful. But he could hardly
maintain his opposition to one of whom the choice spirits of the
world thought well. And he tried to be fair on the subject. It might
be that it was a prejudice. Others probably did not find a man to be
odious because he was of foreign extraction and known by a foreign
name. Others would not suspect a man of being of Jewish blood because
he was swarthy, or even object to him if he were a Jew by descent.
But it was wonderful to him that his girl should like such a
man,--should like such a man well enough to choose him as the one
companion of her life. She had been brought up to prefer English
men, and English thinking, and English ways,--and English ways, too,
somewhat of a past time. He thought as did Brabantio, that it could
not be that without magic his daughter who had shunned--
"The wealthy curled darlings of our nation,
Would ever have, to incur a general mock,
Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom
Of such a thing as"--
this distasteful Portuguese.
That evening he said nothing further to his daughter, but sat with
her, silent and disconsolate. Later in the evening, after she had
gone to her room, Everett came in while the old man was still walking
up and down the drawing-room. "Where have you been?" asked the
father,--not caring a straw as to any reply when he asked the
question, but roused almost to anger by the answer when it came.
"I have been dining with Lopez at the club."
"I believe you live with that man."
"Is there any reason, sir, why I should not?"
"You know that there is a good reason why there should be no peculiar
intimacy. But I don't suppose that my wishes, or your sister's
welfare, will interest you."
"That is severe, sir."
"I am not such a fool as to suppose that you are to quarrel with
a man because I don't approve his addressing your sister; but I
do think that while this is going on, and while he perseveres in
opposition to my distinct refusal, you need not associate with him in
any special manner."
"I don't understand your objection to him, sir."
"I dare say not. There are a great many things you don't understand.
But I do object."
"He's a very rising man. Mr. Roby was saying to me just now--"
"Who cares a straw what a fool like Roby says?"
"I don't mean Uncle Dick, but his brother,--who, I suppose, is
somebody in the world. He was saying to me just now that he wondered
why Lopez does not go into the House;--that he would be sure to get a
seat if he chose, and safe to make a mark when he got there."
"I dare say he could get into the House. I don't know any well-to-do
blackguard of whom you might not predict as much. A seat in the House
of Commons doesn't make a man a gentleman as far as I can see."
"I think every one allows that Ferdinand Lopez is a gentleman."
"Who was his father?"
"I didn't happen to know him, sir."
"And who was his mother? I don't suppose you will credit anything
because I say it, but as far as my experience goes, a man doesn't
often become a gentleman in the first generation. A man may be very
worthy, very clever, very rich,--very well worth knowing, if you
will;--but when one talks of admitting a man into close family
communion by marriage, one would, I fancy, wish to know something of
his father and mother." Then Everett escaped, and Mr. Wharton was
again left to his own meditations. Oh, what a peril, what a trouble,
what a labyrinth of difficulties was a daughter! He must either be
known as a stern, hard-hearted parent, utterly indifferent to his
child's feelings, using with tyranny the power over her which came to
him only from her sense of filial duty,--or else he must give up his
own judgment, and yield to her in a matter as to which he believed
that such yielding would be most pernicious to her own interests.
Hitherto he really knew nothing of the man's means;--nor, if he could
have his own way, did he want such information. But, as things were
going now, he began to feel that if he could hear anything averse
to the man he might thus strengthen his hands against him. On the
following day he went into the city, and called on an old friend,
a banker,--one whom he had known for nearly half a century, and of
whom, therefore, he was not afraid to ask a question. For Mr. Wharton
was a man not prone, in the ordinary intercourse of life, either to
ask or to answer questions. "You don't know anything, do you, of a
man named Ferdinand Lopez?"
"I have heard of him. But why do you ask?"
"Well; I have a reason for asking. I don't know that I quite wish to
say what my reason is."
"I have heard of him as connected with Hunky's house," said the
banker,--"or rather with one of the partners in the house."
"Is he a man of means?"
"I imagine him to be so;--but I know nothing. He has rather large
dealings, I take it, in foreign stocks. Is he after my old friend,
Miss Wharton?"
"Well;--yes."
"You had better get more information than I can give you. But, of
course, before anything of that kind was done you would see that
money was settled." This was all he heard in the city, and this was
not satisfactory. He had not liked to tell his friend that he wished
to hear that the foreigner was a needy adventurer,--altogether
untrustworthy; but that had really been his desire. Then he thought
of the £60,000 which he himself destined for his girl. If the man
were to his liking there would be money enough. Though he had
been careful to save money, he was not a greedy man, even for his
children. Should his daughter insist on marrying this man he could
take care that she should never want a sufficient income.
As a first step,--a thing to be done almost at once,--he must take
her away from London. It was now July, and the custom of the family
was that the house in Manchester Square should be left for two
months, and that the flitting should take place about the middle of
August. Mr. Wharton usually liked to postpone the flitting, as he
also liked to hasten the return. But now it was a question whether he
had not better start at once,--start somewhither, and probably for
a much longer period than the usual vacation. Should he take the
bull by the horns, and declare his purpose of living for the next
twelvemonth at--; well, it did not much matter where; Dresden, he
thought, was a long way off, and would do as well as any place. Then
it occurred to him that his cousin, Sir Alured, was in town, and
that he had better see his cousin before he came to any decision.
They were, as usual, expected at Wharton Hall this autumn, and that
arrangement could not be abandoned without explanation.
Sir Alured Wharton was a baronet, with a handsome old family place on
the Wye in Herefordshire, whose forefathers had been baronets since
baronets were first created, and whose earlier forefathers had lived
at Wharton Hall much before that time. It may be imagined, therefore,
that Sir Alured was proud of his name, of his estate, and of his
rank. But there were drawbacks to his happiness. As regarded his
name, it was to descend to a nephew whom he specially disliked,--and
with good cause. As to his estate, delightful as it was in many
respects, it was hardly sufficient to maintain his position with that
plentiful hospitality which he would have loved;--and other property
he had none. And as to his rank, he had almost become ashamed of it,
since,--as he was wont to declare was now the case,--every prosperous
tallow-chandler throughout the country was made a baronet as a matter
of course. So he lived at home through the year with his wife and
daughters, not pretending to the luxury of a season in London for
which his modest three or four thousand a year did not suffice;--and
so living, apart from all the friction of clubs, parliaments, and
mixed society, he did veritably believe that his dear country was
going utterly to the dogs. He was so staunch in politics, that during
the doings of the last quarter of a century,--from the repeal of the
Corn Laws down to the Ballot,--he had honestly declared one side to
be as bad as the other. Thus he felt that all his happiness was to be
drawn from the past. There was nothing of joy or glory to which he
could look forward either on behalf of his country or his family. His
nephew,--and alas, his heir,--was a needy spendthrift, with whom he
would hold no communication. The family settlement for his wife and
daughters would leave them but poorly off; and though he did struggle
to save something, the duty of living as Sir Alured Wharton of
Wharton Hall should live made those struggles very ineffective.
He was a melancholy, proud, ignorant man, who could not endure a
personal liberty, and who thought the assertion of social equality
on the part of men of lower rank to amount to the taking of personal
liberty;--who read little or nothing, and thought that he knew the
history of his country because he was aware that Charles I had had
his head cut off, and that the Georges had come from Hanover. If
Charles I had never had his head cut off, and if the Georges had
never come from Hanover, the Whartons would now probably be great
people and Britain a great nation. But the Evil One had been allowed
to prevail, and everything had gone astray, and Sir Alured now had
nothing of this world to console him but a hazy retrospect of past
glories, and a delight in the beauty of his own river, his own park,
and his own house. Sir Alured, with all his foibles and with all his
faults, was a pure-minded, simple gentleman, who could not tell a
lie, who could not do a wrong, and who was earnest in his desire to
make those who were dependent on him comfortable, and, if possible,
happy. Once a year he came up to London for a week, to see his
lawyers, and get measured for a coat, and go to the dentist. These
were the excuses which he gave, but it was fancied by some that his
wig was the great moving cause. Sir Alured and Mr. Wharton were
second cousins, and close friends. Sir Alured trusted his cousin
altogether in all things, believing him to be the great legal
luminary of Great Britain, and Mr. Wharton returned his cousin's
affection, entertaining something akin to reverence for the man who
was the head of his family. He dearly loved Sir Alured,--and loved
Sir Alured's wife and two daughters. Nevertheless, the second week at
Wharton Hall became always tedious to him, and the fourth, fifth, and
sixth weeks frightful with ennui.
Perhaps it was with some unconscious dread of this tedium that he
made a sudden suggestion to Sir Alured in reference to Dresden. Sir
Alured had come to him at his chambers, and the two old men were
sitting together near the open window. Sir Alured delighted in the
privilege of sitting there, which seemed to confer upon him something
of an insight into the inner ways of London life beyond what he could
get at his hotel or his wigmaker's. "Go to Dresden;--for the winter!"
he exclaimed.
"Not only for the winter. We should go at once."
"Not before you come to Wharton!" said the amazed baronet.
Mr. Wharton replied in a low, sad voice, "In that case we should not
go down to Herefordshire at all." The baronet looked hurt as well as
unhappy. "Yes, I know what you will say, and how kind you are."
"It isn't kindness at all. You always come. It would be breaking up
everything."
"Everything has to be broken up sooner or later. One feels that as
one grows older."
"You and I, Abel, are just of an age. Why should you talk to me like
this? You are strong enough, whatever I am. Why shouldn't you come?
Dresden! I never heard of such a thing. I suppose it's some nonsense
of Emily's."
Then Mr. Wharton told his whole story. "Nonsense of Emily's!" he
began. "Yes, it is nonsense,--worse than you think. But she doesn't
want to go abroad." The father's plaint needn't be repeated to the
reader as it was told to the baronet. Though it was necessary that
he should explain himself, yet he tried to be reticent. Sir Alured
listened in silence. He loved his cousin Emily, and, knowing that she
would be rich, knowing her advantages of birth, and recognizing her
beauty, had expected that she would make a match creditable to the
Wharton family. But a Portuguese Jew! A man who had never been even
known to allude to his own father! For by degrees Mr. Wharton had
been driven to confess all the sins of the lover, though he had
endeavoured to conceal the extent of his daughter's love.
"Do you mean that Emily--favours him?"
"I am afraid so."
"And would she--would she--do anything without your sanction?" He was
always thinking of the disgrace attaching to himself by reason of his
nephew's vileness, and now, if a daughter of the family should also
go astray, so as to be exiled from the bosom of the Whartons, how
manifest would it be that all the glory was departing from their
house!
"No! She will do nothing without my sanction. She has given her
word,--which is gospel." As he spoke the old lawyer struck his hand
upon the table.
"Then why should you run away to Dresden?"
"Because she is unhappy. She will not marry him,--or even see him, if
I forbid it. But she is near him."
"Herefordshire is a long way off," said the baronet, pleading.
"Change of scene is what she should have," said the father.
"There can't be more of a change than she'd get at Wharton. She
always did like Wharton. It was there that she met Arthur Fletcher."
The father only shook his head as Arthur Fletcher's name was
mentioned. "Well,--that is sad. I always thought she'd give way about
Arthur at last."
"It is impossible to understand a young woman," said the lawyer. With
such an English gentleman as Arthur Fletcher on one side, and with
this Portuguese Jew on the other, it was to him Hyperion to a Satyr.
A darkness had fallen over his girl's eyes, and for a time her power
of judgment had left her.
"But I don't see why Wharton should not do just as well as Dresden,"
continued the baronet. Mr. Wharton found himself quite unable to
make his cousin understand that the greater disruption caused by
a residence abroad, the feeling that a new kind of life had been
considered necessary for her, and that she must submit to the new
kind of life, might be gradually effective, while the journeyings and
scenes which had been common to her year after year would have no
effect. Nevertheless he gave way. They could hardly start to Germany
at once, but the visit to Wharton might be accelerated; and the
details of the residence abroad might be there arranged. It was
fixed, therefore, that Mr. Wharton and Emily should go down to
Wharton Hall at any rate before the end of July.
"Why do you go earlier than usual, papa?" Emily asked him afterwards.
"Because I think it best," he replied angrily. She ought at any rate
to understand the reason.
"Of course I shall be ready, papa. You know that I always like
Wharton. There is no place on earth I like so much, and this year it
will be especially pleasant to me to go out of town. But--"
"But what?"
"I can't bear to think that I shall be taking you away."
"I've got to bear worse things than that, my dear."
"Oh, papa, do not speak to me like that! Of course I know what
you mean. There is no real reason for your going. If you wish it
I will promise you that I will not see him." He only shook his
head,--meaning to imply that a promise which could go no farther
than that would not make him happy. "It will be just the same,
papa,--either here, or at Wharton, or elsewhere. You need not be
afraid of me."
"I am not afraid of you;--but I am afraid for you. I fear for your
happiness,--and for my own."
"So do I, papa. But what can be done? I suppose sometimes people must
be unhappy. I can't change myself, and I can't change you. I find
myself to be as much bound to Mr. Lopez as though I were his wife."
"No, no! you shouldn't say so. You've no right to say so."
"But I have given you a promise, and I certainly will keep it. If
we must be unhappy, still we need not,--need not quarrel; need we,
papa?" Then she came up to him and kissed him,--whereupon he went out
of the room wiping his eyes.
That evening he again spoke to her, saying merely a word. "I think,
my dear, we'll have it fixed that we go on the 30th. Sir Alured
seemed to wish it."
"Very well, papa;--I shall be quite ready."