Never Run Away!
During the whole of that evening there was a forced attempt on the
part of all the party at Wharton Hall to be merry,--which, however,
as is the case whenever such attempts are forced, was a failure.
There had been a hay-making harvest-home which was supposed to give
the special occasion for mirth, as Sir Alured farmed the land around
the park himself, and was great in hay. "I don't think it pays very
well," he said with a gentle smile, "but I like to employ some of the
people myself. I think the old people find it easier with me than
with the tenants."
"I shouldn't wonder," said his cousin;--"but that's charity; not
employment."
"No, no," exclaimed the baronet. "They work for their wages and do
their best. Powell sees to that." Powell was the bailiff, who knew
the length of his master's foot to a quarter of an inch, and was
quite aware that the Wharton haymakers were not to be overtasked.
"Powell doesn't keep any cats about the place, but what catch mice.
But I am not quite sure that haymaking does pay."
"How do the tenants manage?"
"Of course they look to things closer. You wouldn't wish me to let
the land up to the house door."
"I think," said old Mrs. Fletcher, "that a landlord should consent
to lose a little by his own farming. It does good in the long run."
Both Mr. Wharton and Sir Alured felt that this might be very well at
Longbarns, though it could hardly be afforded at Wharton.
"I don't think I lose much by my farming," said the squire of
Longbarns. "I have about four hundred acres on hand, and I keep my
accounts pretty regularly."
"Johnson is a very good man, I dare say," said the baronet.
"Like most of the others," continued the squire, "he's very well
as long as he's looked after. I think I know as much about it as
Johnson. Of course, I don't expect a farmer's profit; but I do expect
my rent, and I get it."
"I don't think I manage it quite that way," said the baronet in a
melancholy tone.
"I'm afraid not," said the barrister.
"John is as hard upon the men as any one of the tenants," said John's
wife, Mrs. Fletcher of Longbarns.
"I'm not hard at all," said John, "and you understand nothing about
it. I'm paying three shillings a week more to every man, and eighteen
pence a week more to every woman, than I did three years ago."
"That's because of the Unions," said the barrister.
"I don't care a straw for the Unions. If the Unions interfered with
my comfort I'd let the land and leave the place."
"Oh, John!" ejaculated John's mother.
"I would not consent to be made a slave even for the sake of the
country. But the wages had to be raised,--and having raised them I
expect to get proper value for my money. If anything has to be given
away, let it be given away,--so that the people should know what it
is that they receive."
"That's just what we don't want to do here," said Lady Wharton, who
did not often join in any of these arguments.
"You're wrong, my lady," said her stepson. "You're only breeding
idleness when you teach people to think that they are earning wages
without working for their money. Whatever you do with 'em let 'em
know and feel the truth. It'll be the best in the long run."
"I'm sometimes happy when I think that I shan't live to see the long
run," said the baronet. This was the manner in which they tried to
be merry that evening after dinner at Wharton Hall. The two girls
sat listening to their seniors in contented silence,--listening
or perhaps thinking of their own peculiar troubles, while Arthur
Fletcher held some book in his hand which he strove to read with all
his might.
There was not one there in the room who did not know that it was the
wish of the united families that Arthur Fletcher should marry Emily
Wharton, and also that Emily had refused him. To Arthur of course the
feeling that it was so could not but be an additional vexation; but
the knowledge had grown up and had become common in the two families
without any power on his part to prevent so disagreeable a condition
of affairs. There was not one in that room, unless it was Mary
Wharton, who was not more or less angry with Emily, thinking her
to be perverse and unreasonable. Even to Mary her cousin's strange
obstinacy was matter of surprise and sorrow,--for to her Arthur
Fletcher was one of those demigods, who should never be refused, who
are not expected to do more than express a wish and be accepted. Her
own heart had not strayed that way because she thought but little of
herself, knowing herself to be portionless, and believing from long
thought on the subject that it was not her destiny to be the wife of
any man. She regarded Arthur Fletcher as being of all men the most
lovable,--though, knowing her own condition, she did not dream of
loving him. It did not become her to be angry with another girl on
such a cause;--but she was amazed that Arthur Fletcher should sigh in
vain.
The girl's folly and perverseness on this head were known to them
all,--but as yet her greater folly and worse perverseness, her
vitiated taste and dreadful partiality for the Portuguese adventurer,
were known but to the two old men and to poor Arthur himself. When
that sternly magnificent old lady, Mrs. Fletcher,--whose ancestors
had been Welsh kings in the time of the Romans,--when she should hear
this story, the roof of the old hall would hardly be able to hold her
wrath and her dismay! The old kings had died away, but the Fletchers,
and the Vaughans,--of whom she had been one,--and the Whartons
remained, a peculiar people in an age that was then surrendering
itself to quick perdition, and with peculiar duties. Among these
duties, the chiefest of them incumbent on females was that of so
restraining their affections that they should never damage the good
cause by leaving it. They might marry within the pale,--or remain
single, as might be their lot. She would not take upon herself to
say that Emily Wharton was bound to accept Arthur Fletcher, merely
because such a marriage was fitting,--although she did think that
there was much perverseness in the girl, who might have taught
herself, had she not been stubborn, to comply with the wishes of the
families. But to love one below herself, a man without a father, a
foreigner, a black Portuguese nameless Jew, merely because he had a
bright eye, and a hook nose, and a glib tongue,--that a girl from the
Whartons should do this--! It was so unnatural to Mrs. Fletcher that
it would be hardly possible to her to be civil to the girl after she
had heard that her mind and taste were so astray. All this Sir Alured
knew and the barrister knew it,--and they feared her indignation the
more because they sympathised with the old lady's feelings.
"Emily Wharton doesn't seem to me to be a bit more gracious than she
used to be," Mrs. Fletcher said to Lady Wharton that night. The two
old ladies were sitting together upstairs, and Mrs. John Fletcher was
with them. In such conferences Mrs. Fletcher always domineered,--to
the perfect contentment of old Lady Wharton, but not equally so to
that of her daughter-in-law.
"I'm afraid she is not very happy," said Lady Wharton.
"She has everything that ought to make a girl happy, and I don't
know what it is she wants. It makes me quite angry to see her so
discontented. She doesn't say a word, but sits there as glum as
death. If I were Arthur I would leave her for six months, and never
speak to her during the time."
"I suppose, mother," said the younger Mrs. Fletcher,--who called her
husband's mother, mother, and her own mother, mamma,--"a girl needn't
marry a man unless she likes him."
"But she should try to like him if it is suitable in other respects.
I don't mean to take any trouble about it. Arthur needn't beg for any
favour. Only I wouldn't have come here if I had thought that she had
intended to sit silent like that always."
"It makes her unhappy, I suppose," said Lady Wharton, "because she
can't do what we all want."
"Fall, lall! She'd have wanted it herself if nobody else had wished
it. I'm surprised that Arthur should be so much taken with her."
"You'd better say nothing more about it, mother."
"I don't mean to say anything more about it. It's nothing to me.
Arthur can do very well in the world without Emily Wharton. Only a
girl like that will sometimes make a disgraceful match; and we should
all feel that."
"I don't think Emily will do anything disgraceful," said Lady
Wharton. And so they parted.
In the meantime the two brothers were smoking their pipes in the
housekeeper's room, which, at Wharton, when the Fletchers or Everett
were there, was freely used for that purpose.
"Isn't it rather quaint of you," said the elder brother, "coming down
here in the middle of term time?"
"It doesn't matter much."
"I should have thought it would matter;--that is, if you mean to go
on with it."
"I'm not going to make a slave of myself about it, if you mean that.
I don't suppose I shall ever marry,--and as for rising to be a swell
in the profession, I don't care about it."
"You used to care about it,--very much. You used to say that if you
didn't get to the top it shouldn't be your own fault."
"And I have worked;--and I do work. But things get changed somehow.
I've half a mind to give it all up,--to raise a lot of money, and
to start off with a resolution to see every corner of the world. I
suppose a man could do it in about thirty years if he lived so long.
It's the kind of thing would suit me."
"Exactly. I don't know any fellow who has been more into society,
and therefore you are exactly the man to live alone for the rest of
your life. You've always worked hard, I will say that for you;--and
therefore you're just the man to be contented with idleness. You've
always been ambitious and self-confident, and therefore it will
suit you to a T, to be nobody and to do nothing." Arthur sat
silent, smoking his pipe with all his might, and his brother
continued,--"Besides,--you read sometimes, I fancy."
"I should read all the more."
"Very likely. But what you have read, in the old plays, for instance,
must have taught you that when a man is cut up about a woman,--which
I suppose is your case just at present,--he never does get over
it. He never gets all right after a time,--does he? Such a one
had better go and turn monk at once, as the world is over for him
altogether;--isn't it? Men don't recover after a month or two, and go
on just the same. You've never seen that kind of thing yourself?"
"I'm not going to cut my throat or turn monk either."
"No. There are so many steamboats and railways now that travelling
seems easier. Suppose you go as far as St. Petersburg, and see if
that does you any good. If it don't, you needn't go on, because it
will be hopeless. If it does,--why, you can come back, because the
second journey will do the rest."
"There never was anything, John, that wasn't matter for chaff with
you."
"And I hope there never will be. People understand it when logic
would be thrown away. I suppose the truth is the girl cares for
somebody else." Arthur nodded his head. "Who is it? Any one I know?"
"I think not."
"Any one you know?"
"I have met the man."
"Decent?"
"Disgustingly indecent, I should say." John looked very black, for
even with him the feeling about the Whartons and the Vaughans and the
Fletchers was very strong. "He's a man I should say you wouldn't let
into Longbarns."
"There might be various reasons for that. It might be that you
wouldn't care to meet him."
"Well;--no,--I don't suppose I should. But without that you wouldn't
like him. I don't think he's an Englishman."
"A foreigner!"
"He has got a foreign name."
"An Italian nobleman?"
"I don't think he's noble in any country."
"Who the d---- is he?"
"His name is--Lopez."
"Everett's friend?"
"Yes;--Everett's friend. I ain't very much obliged to Master Everett
for what he has done."
"I've seen the man. Indeed, I may say I know him,--for I dined with
him once in Manchester Square. Old Wharton himself must have asked
him there."
"He was there as Everett's friend. I only heard all this to-day, you
know;--though I had heard about it before."
"And therefore you want to set out on your travels. As far as I saw I
should say he is a clever fellow."
"I don't doubt that."
"And a gentleman."
"I don't know that he is not," said Arthur. "I've no right to say a
word against him. From what Wharton says I suppose he's rich."
"He's good looking too;--at least he's the sort of man that women
like to look at."
"Just so. I've no cause of quarrel with him,--nor with her. But--."
"Yes, my friend, I see it all," said the elder brother. "I think
I know all about it. But running away is not the thing. One may
be pretty nearly sure that one is right when one says that a man
shouldn't run away from anything."
"The thing is to be happy if you can," said Arthur.
"No;--that is not the thing. I'm not much of a philosopher, but as
far as I can see there are two philosophies in the world. The one
is to make one's self happy, and the other is to make other people
happy. The latter answers the best."
"I can't add to her happiness by hanging about London."
"That's a quibble. It isn't her happiness we are talking about,--nor
yet your hanging about London. Gird yourself up and go on with what
you've got to do. Put your work before your feelings. What does a
poor man do, who goes out hedging and ditching with a dead child
lying in his house? If you get a blow in the face, return it if it
ought to be returned, but never complain of the pain. If you must
have your vitals eaten into,--have them eaten into like a man. But,
mind you,--these ain't your vitals."
"It goes pretty near."
"These ain't your vitals. A man gets cured of it,--almost always. I
believe always; though some men get hit so hard they can never bring
themselves to try it again. But tell me this. Has old Wharton given
his consent?"
"No. He has refused," said Arthur with strong emphasis.
"How is it to be, then?"
"He has dealt very fairly by me. He has done all he could to get rid
of the man,--both with him and with her. He has told Emily that he
will have nothing to do with the man. And she will do nothing without
his sanction."
"Then it will remain just as it is."
"No, John; it will not. He has gone on to say that though he has
refused,--and has refused roughly enough,--he must give way if he
sees that she has really set her heart upon him. And she has."
"Has she told you so?"
"No;--but he has told me. I shall have it out with her to-morrow, if
I can. And then I shall be off."
"You'll be here for shooting on the 1st?"
"No. I dare say you're right in what you say about sticking to my
work. It does seem unmanly to run away because of a girl."
"Because of anything! Stop and face it, whatever it is."
"Just so;--but I can't stop and face her. It would do no good. For
all our sakes I should be better away. I can get shooting with
Musgrave and Carnegie in Perthshire. I dare say I shall go there, and
take a share with them."
"That's better than going into all the quarters of the globe."
"I didn't mean that I was to surrender and start at once. You take a
fellow up so short. I shall do very well, I've no doubt, and shall
be hunting here as jolly as ever at Christmas. But a fellow must say
it all to somebody." The elder brother put his hand out and laid it
affectionately upon the younger one's arm. "I'm not going to whimper
about the world like a whipped dog. The worst of it is so many people
have known of this."
"You mean down here."
"Oh;--everywhere. I have never told them. It has been a kind of
family affair and thought to be fit for general discussions."
"That'll wear away."
"In the meantime it's a bore. But that shall be the end of it. Don't
you say another word to me about it, and I won't to you. And tell
mother not to, or Sarah." Sarah was John Fletcher's wife. "It has
got to be dropped, and let us drop it as quickly as we can. If she
does marry this man I don't suppose she'll be much at Longbarns or
Wharton."
"Not at Longbarns certainly, I should say," replied John. "Fancy
mother having to curtsey to her as Mrs. Lopez! And I doubt whether
Sir Alured would like him. He isn't of our sort. He's too clever,
too cosmopolitan,--a sort of man white-washed of all prejudices, who
wouldn't mind whether he ate horseflesh or beef if horseflesh were as
good as beef, and never had an association in his life. I'm not sure
that he's not on the safest side. Good night, old fellow. Pluck up,
and send us plenty of grouse if you do go to Scotland."
John Fletcher, as I hope may have been already seen, was by no
means a weak man or an indifferent brother. He was warm-hearted,
sharp-witted, and, though perhaps a little self-opinionated,
considered throughout the county to be one of the most prudent in
it. Indeed no one ever ventured to doubt his wisdom on all practical
matters,--save his mother, who seeing him almost every day, had a
stronger bias towards her younger son. "Arthur has been hit hard
about that girl," he said to his wife that night.
"Emily Wharton?"
"Yes;--your cousin Emily. Don't say anything to him, but be as good
to him as you know how."
"Good to Arthur! Am I not always good to him?"
"Be a little more than usually tender with him. It makes one almost
cry to see such a fellow hurt like that. I can understand it, though
I never had anything of it myself."
"You never had, John," said the wife leaning close upon the husband's
breast as she spoke. "It all came very easily to you;--too easily
perhaps."
"If any girl had ever refused me, I should have taken her at her
word, I can tell you. There would have been no second 'hop' to that
ball."
"Then I suppose I was right to catch it the first time?"
"I don't say how that may be."
"I was right. Oh, dear me!--Suppose I had doubted, just for once, and
you had gone off. You would have tried once more;--wouldn't you?"
"You'd have gone about like a broken-winged old hen, and have
softened me that way."
"And now poor Arthur has had his wing broken."
"You mustn't let on to know that it's broken, and the wing will be
healed in due time. But what fools girls are!"
"Indeed they are, John;--particularly me."
"Fancy a girl like Emily Wharton," said he, not condescending to
notice her little joke, "throwing over a fellow like Arthur for a
greasy, black foreigner."
"A foreigner!"
"Yes;--a man named Lopez. Don't say anything about it at present.
Won't she live to find out the difference, and to know what she has
done! I can tell her of one that won't pity her."