The Beginning of the Honeymoon
On the morning of his marriage, before he went to the altar, Lopez
made one or two resolutions as to his future conduct. The first was
that he would give himself a fortnight from his marriage day in which
he would not even think of money. He had made certain arrangements,
in the course of which he had caused Sextus Parker to stare with
surprise and to sweat with dismay, but which nevertheless were
successfully concluded. Bills were drawn to run over to February,
and ready money to a moderate extent was forthcoming, and fiscal
tranquillity was insured for a certain short period. The confidence
which Sextus Parker had once felt in his friend's own resources was
somewhat on the decline, but he still believed in his friend's skill
and genius, and, after due inquiry, he believed entirely in his
friend's father-in-law. Sextus Parker still thought that things
would come round. Ferdinand,--he always now called his friend by his
Christian name,--Ferdinand was beautifully, seraphically confident.
And Sexty, who had been in a manner magnetised by Ferdinand, was
confident too--at certain periods of the day. He was very confident
when he had had his two or three glasses of sherry at luncheon,
and he was often delightfully confident with his cigar and
brandy-and-water at night. But there were periods in the morning in
which he would shake with fear and sweat with dismay.
But Lopez himself, having with his friend's assistance arranged his
affairs comfortably for a month or two, had, as a first resolution,
promised himself a fortnight's freedom from all carking cares. His
second resolution had been that at the end of the fortnight he would
commence his operations on Mr. Wharton. Up to the last moment he had
hoped,--had almost expected,--that a sum of money would have been
paid to him. Even a couple of thousand pounds for the time would have
been of great use to him;--but no tender of any kind had been made.
Not a word had been said. Things could not of course go on in that
way. He was not going to play the coward with his father-in-law.
Then he bethought himself how he would act if his father-in-law were
sternly to refuse to do anything for him, and he assured himself that
in such circumstances he would make himself very disagreeable to his
father-in-law. And then his third resolution had reference to his
wife. She must be instructed in his ways. She must learn to look at
the world with his eyes. She must be taught the great importance
of money,--not in a griping, hard-fisted, prosaic spirit; but that
she might participate in that feeling of his own which had in it so
much that was grand, so much that was delightful, so much that was
picturesque. He would never ask her to be parsimonious,--never even
to be economical. He would take a glory in seeing her well dressed
and well attended, with her own carriage and her own jewels. But she
must learn that the enjoyment of these things must be built upon
a conviction that the most important pursuit in the world was the
acquiring of money. And she must be made to understand, first of all,
that she had a right to at any rate a half of her father's fortune.
He had perceived that she had much influence with her father, and she
must be taught to use this influence unscrupulously on her husband's
behalf.
We have already seen that under the pressure of his thoughts he did
break his first resolution within an hour or two of his marriage. It
is easy for a man to say that he will banish care, so that he may
enjoy to the full the delights of the moment. But this is a power
which none but a savage possesses,--or perhaps an Irishman. We have
learned the lesson from the divines, the philosophers, and the poets.
Post equitem sedet atra cura. Thus was Ferdinand Lopez mounted high
on his horse,--for he had triumphed greatly in his marriage, and
really felt that the world could give him no delight so great as to
have her beside him, and her as his own. But the inky devil sat close
upon his shoulders. Where would he be at the end of three months if
Mr. Wharton would do nothing for him,--and if a certain venture in
guano, to which he had tempted Sexty Parker, should not turn out the
right way? He believed in the guano and he believed in Mr. Wharton,
but it is a terrible thing to have one's whole position in the world
hanging upon either an unwilling father-in-law or a probable rise in
the value of manure! And then how would he reconcile himself to her
if both father-in-law and guano should go against him, and how should
he endure her misery?
The inky devil had forced him to ask the question even before they
had reached Dover. "Does it matter?" she had asked. Then for the time
he had repudiated his solicitude, and had declared that no question
of money was of much consequence to him,--thereby making his future
task with her so much the more difficult. After that he said nothing
to her on the subject on that their wedding day,--but he could not
prevent himself from thinking of it. Had he gone to the depth of ruin
without a wife, what would it have mattered? For years past he had
been at the same kind of work,--but while he was unmarried there
had been a charm in the very danger. And as a single man he had
succeeded, being sometimes utterly impecunious, but still with a
capacity of living. Now he had laden himself with a burden of which
the very intensity of his love immensely increased the weight. As for
not thinking of it, that was impossible. Of course she must help him.
Of course she must be taught how imperative it was that she should
help him at once. "Is there anything troubles you?" she said, as she
sat leaning against him after their dinner in the hotel at Dover.
"What should trouble me on such a day as this?"
"If there is anything, tell it me. I do not mean to say now, at this
moment,--unless you wish it. Whatever may be your troubles, it shall
be my greatest happiness, as it is my first duty, to lessen them if I
can."
The promise was very well. It all went in the right direction. It
showed him that she was at any rate prepared to take a part in the
joint work of their life. But, nevertheless, she should be spared for
the moment. "When there is trouble, you shall be told everything," he
said, pressing his lips to her brow, "but there is nothing that need
trouble you yet." He smiled as he said this, but there was something
in the tone of his voice which told her that there would be trouble.
When he was in Paris he received a letter from Parker, to whom he
had been obliged to intrust a running address, but from whom he had
enforced a promise that there should be no letter-writing unless
under very pressing circumstances. The circumstances had not been
pressing. The letter contained only one paragraph of any importance,
and that was due to what Lopez tried to regard as fidgety cowardice
on the part of his ally. "Please to bear in mind that I can't and
won't arrange for the bills for £1500 due 3rd February." That was
the paragraph. Who had asked him to arrange for these bills? And
yet Lopez was well aware that he intended that poor Sexty should
"arrange" for them, in the event of his failure to make arrangements
with Mr. Wharton.
At last he was quite unable to let the fortnight pass by without
beginning the lessons which his wife had to learn. As for that first
intention as to driving his cares out of his own mind for that time,
he had long since abandoned even the attempt. It was necessary to
him that a considerable sum of money should be extracted from the
father-in-law, at any rate before the end of January, and a week or
even a day might be of importance. They had hurried on southwards
from Paris, and before the end of the first week had passed over the
Simplon, and were at a pleasant inn on the shores of Como. Everything
in their travels had been as yet delightful to Emily. This man, of
whom she knew in truth so little, had certain good gifts,--gifts of
intellect, gifts of temper, gifts of voice and manner and outward
appearance,--which had hitherto satisfied her. A husband who is also
an eager lover must be delightful to a young bride. And hitherto no
lover could have been more tender than Lopez. Every word and every
act, every look and every touch, had been loving. Had she known
the world better she might have felt, perhaps, that something was
expected where so much was given. Perhaps a rougher manner, with some
little touch of marital self-assertion, might be a safer commencement
of married life,--safer to the wife as coming from her husband.
Arthur Fletcher by this time would have asked her to bring him his
slippers, taking infinite pride in having his little behests obeyed
by so sweet a servitor. That also would have been pleasant to her had
her heart in the first instance followed his image; but now also the
idolatry of Ferdinand Lopez had been very pleasant.
But the moment for the first lesson had come. "Your father has not
written to you since you started?" he said.
"Not a line. He has not known our address. He is never very good at
letter-writing. I did write to him from Paris, and I scribbled a few
words to Everett yesterday."
"It is very odd that he should never have written to me."
"Did you expect him to write?"
"To tell you the truth, I rather did. Not that I should have dreamed
of his corresponding with me had he spoken to me on a certain
subject. But as, on that subject, he never opened his mouth to me, I
almost thought he would write."
"Do you mean about money?" she asked in a very low voice.
"Well;--yes; I do mean about money. Things hitherto have gone so very
strangely between us. Sit down, dear, till we have a real domestic
talk."
"Tell me everything," she said, as she nestled herself close to his
side.
"You know how it was at first between him and me. He objected to me
violently,--I mean openly, to my face. But he based his objection
solely on my nationality,--nationality and blood. As to my condition
in the world, fortune, or income, he never asked a word. That was
strange."
"I suppose he thought he knew."
"He could not have thought he knew, dearest. But it was not for me to
force the subject upon him. You can see that."
"I am sure whatever you did was right, Ferdinand."
"He is indisputably a rich man,--one who might be supposed to be able
and willing to give an only daughter a considerable fortune. Now I
certainly had never thought of marrying for money." Here she rubbed
her face upon his arm. "I felt that it was not for me to speak of
money. If he chose to be reticent, I could be so equally. Had he
asked me, I should have told him that I had no fortune, but was
making a large though precarious income. It would then be for him
to declare what he intended to do. That would, I think, have been
preferable. As it is we are all in doubt. In my position a knowledge
of what your father intends to do would be most valuable to me."
"Should you not ask him?"
"I believe there has always been a perfect confidence between you and
him?"
"Certainly,--as to all our ways of living. But he never said a word
to me about money in his life."
"And yet, my darling, money is most important."
"Of course it is. I know that, Ferdinand."
"Would you mind asking?" She did not answer him at once, but sat
thinking. And he also paused before he went on with his lesson.
But, in order that the lesson should be efficacious, it would be as
well that he should tell her as much as he could even at this first
lecture. "To tell you the truth, this is quite essential to me at
present,--very much more than I had thought it would be when we fixed
the day for our marriage." Her mind within her recoiled at this,
though she was very careful that he should not feel any such motion
in her body. "My business is precarious."
"What is your business, Ferdinand?" Poor girl! That she should have
been allowed to marry a man, and then have to ask such a question!
"It is generally commercial. I buy and sell on speculation. The
world, which is shy of new words, has not yet given it a name. I am
a good deal at present in the South American trade." She listened,
but received no glimmering of an idea from his words. "When we were
engaged everything was as bright as roses with me."
"Why did you not tell me this before,--so that we might have been
more prudent?"
"Such prudence would have been horrid to me. But the fact is that
I should not now have spoken to you at all, but that since we left
England I have had letters from a sort of partner of mine. In our
business things will go astray sometimes. It would be of great
service to me if I could learn what are your father's intentions."
"You want him to give you some money at once."
"It would not be unusual, dear,--when there is money to be given. But
I want you specially to ask him what he himself would propose to do.
He knows already that I have taken a home for you and paid for it,
and he knows--. But it does not signify going into that."
"Tell me everything."
"He is aware that there are many expenses. Of course if he were a
poor man there would not be a word about it. I can with absolute
truth declare that had he been penniless it would have made no
difference as to my suit to you. But it would possibly have made some
difference as to our after plans. He is a thorough man of the world,
and he must know all that. I am sure he must feel that something is
due to you,--and to me as your husband. But he is odd-tempered, and,
as I have not spoken to him, he chooses to be silent to me. Now, my
darling, you and I cannot afford to wait to see who can be silent the
longest."
"What do you want me to do?"
"To write to him."
"And ask him for money?"
"Not exactly in that way. I think you should say that we should be
glad to know what he intends to do, also saying that a certain sum of
money would at present be of use to me."
"Would it not be better from you? I only ask, Ferdinand. I never have
even spoken to him about money, and of course he would know that you
had dictated what I said."
"No doubt he would. It is natural that I should do so. I hope the
time may come when I may write quite freely to your father myself,
but hitherto he has hardly been courteous to me. I would rather that
you should write,--if you do not mind it. Write your own letter, and
show it me. If there is anything too much or anything too little I
will tell you."
And so the first lesson was taught. The poor young wife did not at
all like the lesson. Even within her own bosom she found no fault
with her husband. But she began to understand that the life before
her was not to be a life of roses. The first word spoken to her in
the train, before it reached Dover, had explained something of this
to her. She had felt at once that there would be trouble about money.
And now, though she did not at all understand what might be the
nature of those troubles, though she had derived no information
whatever from her husband's hints about the South American trade,
though she was as ignorant as ever of his affairs, yet she felt that
the troubles would come soon. But never for a moment did it seem to
her that he had been unjust in bringing her into troubled waters.
They had loved each other, and therefore, whatever might be the
troubles, it was right that they should marry each other. There was
not a spark of anger against him in her bosom;--but she was unhappy.
He demanded from her the writing of the letter almost immediately
after the conversation which has been given above, and of course the
letter was written,--written and recopied, for the paragraph about
the money was, of course, at last of his wording. And she could not
make the remainder of the letter pleasant. The feeling that she was
making a demand for money on her father ran through it all. But the
reader need only see the passage in which Ferdinand Lopez made his
demand,--through her hand.
"Ferdinand has been speaking to me about my fortune." It had gone
much against the grain with her to write these words, "my fortune."
"But I have no fortune," she said. He insisted however, explaining
to her that she was entitled to use these words by her father's
undoubted wealth. And so, with an aching heart, she wrote them.
"Ferdinand has been speaking to me about my fortune. Of course, I
told him that I knew nothing, and that as he had never spoken to
me about money before our marriage, I had never asked about it. He
says that it would be of great service to him to know what are your
intentions; and also that he hopes you may find it convenient to
allow him to draw upon you for some portion of it at present. He says
that £3000 would be of great use to him in his business." That was
the paragraph, and the work of writing it was so distasteful to her
that she could hardly bring herself to form the letters. It seemed
as though she were seizing the advantage of the first moment of her
freedom to take a violent liberty with her father.
"It is altogether his own fault, my pet," he said to her. "I have the
greatest respect in the world for your father, but he has allowed
himself to fall into the habit of keeping all his affairs secret from
his children; and, of course, as they go out into the world, this
secrecy must in some degree be invaded. There is precisely the same
thing going on between him and Everett; only Everett is a great deal
rougher to him than you are likely to be. He never will let Everett
know whether he is to regard himself as a rich man or a poor man."
"He gives him an allowance."
"Because he cannot help himself. To you he does not do even as much
as that, because he can help himself. I have chosen to leave it to
him and he has done nothing. But this is not quite fair, and he must
be told so. I don't think he could be told in more dutiful language."
Emily did not like the idea of telling her father anything which he
might not like to hear; but her husband's behests were to her in
these, her early married days, quite imperative.