"Yes;--a Lie!"
"So you went to Happerton after all," said Lopez to his ally, Mr.
Sextus Parker. "You couldn't believe me when I told you the money was
all right! What a cur you are!"
"That's right;--abuse me."
"Well, it was horrid. Didn't I tell you that it must necessarily
injure me with the house? How are two fellows to get on together
unless they can put some trust in each other? Even if I did run you
into a difficulty, do you really think I'm ruffian enough to tell you
that the money was there if it were untrue?"
Sexty looked like a cur and felt like a cur, as he was being thus
abused. He was not angry with his friend for calling him bad names,
but only anxious to excuse himself. "I was out of sorts," he said,
"and so d----d hippish I didn't know what I was about."
"Brandy-and-soda!" suggested Lopez.
"Perhaps a little of that;--though, by Jove, it isn't often I do that
kind of thing. I don't know a fellow who works harder for his wife
and children than I do. But when one sees such things all round
one,--a fellow utterly smashed here who had a string of hunters
yesterday, and another fellow buying a house in Piccadilly and
pulling it down because it isn't big enough, who was contented with a
little box at Hornsey last summer, one doesn't quite know how to keep
one's legs."
"If you want to learn a lesson look at the two men, and see where the
difference lies. The one has had some heart about him, and the other
has been a coward."
Parker scratched his head, balanced himself on the hind legs of
his stool, and tacitly acknowledged the truth of all that his
enterprising friend said to him. "Has old Wharton come down well?" at
last he asked.
"I have never said a word to old Wharton about money," Lopez
replied,--"except as to the cost of this election I was telling you
of."
"And he wouldn't do anything in that?"
"He doesn't approve of the thing itself. I don't doubt but that the
old gentleman and I shall understand each other before long."
"You've got the length of his foot."
"But I don't mean to drive him. I can get along without that. He's an
old man, and he can't take his money along with him when he goes the
great journey."
"There's a brother, Lopez,--isn't there?"
"Yes,--there's a brother; but Wharton has enough for two; and if he
were to put either out of his will it wouldn't be my wife. Old men
don't like parting with their money, and he's like other old men.
If it were not so I shouldn't bother myself coming into the city at
all."
"Has he enough for that, Lopez?"
"I suppose he's worth a quarter of a million."
"By Jove! And where did he get it?"
"Perseverance, sir. Put by a shilling a day, and let it have its
natural increase, and see what it will come to at the end of fifty
years. I suppose old Wharton has been putting by two or three
thousand out of his professional income, at any rate for the last
thirty years, and never for a moment forgetting its natural increase.
That's one way to make a fortune."
"It ain't rapid enough for you and me, Lopez."
"No. That was the old-fashioned way, and the most sure. But, as
you say, it is not rapid enough; and it robs a man of the power of
enjoying his money when he has made it. But it's a very good thing
to be closely connected with a man who has already done that kind of
thing. There's no doubt about the money when it is there. It does not
take to itself wings and fly away."
"But the man who has it sticks to it uncommon hard."
"Of course he does;--but he can't take it away with him."
"He can leave it to hospitals, Lopez. That's the devil!"
"Sexty, my boy, I see you have taken an outlook into human life which
does you credit. Yes, he can leave it to hospitals. But why does he
leave it to hospitals?"
"Something of being afraid about his soul, I suppose."
"No; I don't believe in that. Such a man as this, who has been
hard-fisted all his life, and who has had his eyes thoroughly open,
who has made his own money in the sharp intercourse of man to man,
and who keeps it to the last gasp,--he doesn't believe that he'll do
his soul any good by giving it to hospitals when he can't keep it
himself any longer. His mind has freed itself from those cobwebs long
since. He gives his money to hospitals because the last pleasure of
which he is capable is that of spiting his relations. And it is a
great pleasure to an old man, when his relations have been disgusted
with him for being old and loving his money. I rather think I should
do it myself."
"I'd give myself a chance of going to heaven, I think," said Parker.
"Don't you know that men will rob and cheat on their death-beds, and
say their prayers all the time? Old Wharton won't leave his money to
hospitals if he's well handled by those about him."
"And you'll handle him well;--eh, Lopez?"
"I won't quarrel with him, or tell him that he's a curmudgeon because
he doesn't do all that I want him. He's over seventy, and he can't
carry his money with him."
All this left so vivid an impression of the wisdom of his friend on
the mind of Sextus Parker, that in spite of the harrowing fears by
which he had been tormented on more than one occasion already, he
allowed himself to be persuaded into certain fiscal arrangements, by
which Lopez would find himself put at ease with reference to money at
any rate for the next four months. He had at once told himself that
this election would cost him £1000. When various sums were mentioned
in reference to such an affair, safety could alone be found in taking
the outside sum;--perhaps might generally be more surely found by
adding fifty per cent. to that. He knew that he was wrong about the
election, but he assured himself that he had had no alternative. The
misfortune had been that the Duke should have made his proclamation
about the borough immediately after the offer made by the Duchess. He
had been almost forced to send the agent down to inquire;--and the
agent, when making his inquiries, had compromised him. He must go
on with it now. Perhaps some idea of the pleasantness of increased
intimacy with the Duchess of Omnium encouraged him in this way of
thinking. The Duchess was up in town in February, and Lopez left a
card in Carlton Terrace. On the very next day the card of the Duchess
was left for Mrs. Lopez at the Belgrave Mansions.
Lopez went into the city every day, leaving home at about eleven
o'clock, and not returning much before dinner. The young wife at
first found that she hardly knew what to do with her time. Her aunt,
Mrs. Roby, was distasteful to her. She had already learned from her
husband that he had but little respect for Mrs. Roby. "You remember
the sapphire brooch," he had said once. "That was part of the price I
had to pay for being allowed to approach you." He was sitting at the
time with his arm round her waist, looking out on beautiful scenery
and talking of his old difficulties. She could not find it in her
heart to be angry with him, but the idea brought to her mind was
disagreeable to her. And she was thoroughly angry with Mrs. Roby. Of
course in these days Mrs. Roby came to see her, and of course when
she was up in Manchester Square, she went to the house round the
corner,--but there was no close intimacy between the aunt and the
niece. And many of her father's friends,--whom she regarded as the
Herefordshire set,--were very cold to her. She had not made herself a
glory to Herefordshire, and,--as all these people said,--had broken
the heart of the best Herefordshire young man of the day. This made
a great falling-off in her acquaintance, which was the more felt as
she had never been, as a girl, devoted to a large circle of dearest
female friends. She whom she had loved best had been Mary Wharton,
and Mary Wharton had refused to be her bridesmaid almost without an
expression of regret. She saw her father occasionally. Once he came
and dined with them at their rooms, on which occasion Lopez struggled
hard to make up a well-sounding party. There were Roby from the
Admiralty, and the Happertons, and Sir Timothy Beeswax, with whom
Lopez had become acquainted at Gatherum, and old Lord Mongrober. But
the barrister, who had dined out a good deal in his time, perceived
the effort. Who, that ever with difficulty scraped his dinner
guests together, was able afterwards to obliterate the signs of the
struggle? It was, however, a first attempt, and Lopez, whose courage
was good, thought that he might do better before long. If he could
get into the House and make his mark there people then would dine
with him fast enough. But while this was going on Emily's life was
rather dull. He had provided her with a brougham, and everything
around her was even luxurious, but there came upon her gradually a
feeling that by her marriage she had divided herself from her own
people. She did not for a moment allow this feeling to interfere with
her loyalty to him. Had she not known that this division would surely
take place? Had she not married him because she loved him better than
her own people? So she sat herself down to read Dante,--for they had
studied Italian together during their honeymoon, and she had found
that he knew the language well. And she was busy with her needle. And
she already began to anticipate the happiness which would come to her
when a child of his should be lying in her arms.
She was of course much interested about the election. Nothing could
as yet be done, because as yet there was no vacancy; but still the
subject was discussed daily between them. "Who do you think is going
to stand against me?" he said one day with a smile. "A very old
friend of yours." She knew at once who the man was, and the blood
came to her face. "I think he might as well have left it alone, you
know," he said.
"Did he know?" she asked in a whisper.
"Know;--of course he knew. He is doing it on purpose. But I beat
him once, old girl, didn't I? And I'll beat him again." She liked
him to call her old girl. She loved the perfect intimacy with which
he treated her. But there was something which grated against her
feelings in this allusion by him to the other man who had loved her.
Of course she had told him the whole story. She had conceived it to
be her duty to do so. But then the thing should have been over. It
was necessary, perhaps, that he should tell her who was his opponent.
It was impossible that she should not know when the fight came. But
she did not like to hear him boast that he had beaten Arthur Fletcher
once, and that he would beat him again. By doing so he likened the
sweet fragrance of her love to the dirty turmoil of an electioneering
contest.
He did not understand,--how should he?--that though she had never
loved Arthur Fletcher, had never been able to bring herself to love
him when all her friends had wished it, her feelings to him were
nevertheless those of affectionate friendship;--that she regarded him
as being perfect in his way, a thorough gentleman, a man who would
not for worlds tell a lie, as most generous among the generous, most
noble among the noble. When the other Whartons had thrown her off, he
had not been cold to her. That very day, as soon as her husband had
left her, she looked again at that little note. "I am as I always
have been!" And she remembered that farewell down by the banks of the
Wye. "You will always have one,--one besides him,--who will love you
best in the world." They were dangerous words for her to remember;
but in recalling them to her memory she had often assured herself
that they should not be dangerous to her. She was too sure of her own
heart to be afraid of danger. She had loved the one man and had not
loved the other;--but yet, now, when her husband talked of beating
this man again, she could not but remember the words.
She did not think,--or rather had not thought,--that Arthur Fletcher
would willingly stand against her husband. It had occurred to her at
once that he must first have become a candidate without knowing who
would be his opponent. But Ferdinand had assured her as a matter of
fact that Fletcher had known all about it. "I suppose in politics
men are different," she said to herself. Her husband had evidently
supposed that Arthur Fletcher had proposed himself as a candidate
for Silverbridge, with the express object of doing an injury to
the man who had carried off his love. And she repeated to herself
her husband's words, "He is doing it on purpose." She did not like
to differ from her husband, but she could hardly bring herself to
believe that revenge of this kind should have recommended itself to
Arthur Fletcher.
Some little time after this, when she had been settled in London
about a month, a letter was brought her, and she at once recognised
Arthur Fletcher's writing. She was alone at the time, and it occurred
to her at first that perhaps she ought not to open any communication
from him without showing it to her husband. But then it seemed that
such a hesitation would imply a doubt of the man, and almost a doubt
of herself. Why should she fear what any man might write to her? So
she opened the letter, and read it,--with infinite pleasure. It was
as follows:--
MY DEAR MRS. LOPEZ,
I think it best to make an explanation to you as to a
certain coincidence which might possibly be misunderstood
unless explained. I find that your husband and I are to
be opponents at Silverbridge. I wish to say that I had
pledged myself to the borough before I had heard his name
as connected with it. I have very old associations with
the neighbourhood, and was invited to stand by friends
who had known me all my life as soon as it was understood
that there would be an open contest. I cannot retire now
without breaking faith with my party, nor do I know that
there is any reason why I should do so. I should not,
however, have come forward had I known that Mr. Lopez was
to stand. I think you had better tell him so, and tell
him also, with my compliments, that I hope we may fight
our political battle with mutual good-fellowship and
good-feeling.
Yours very sincerely,
ARTHUR FLETCHER.
Emily was very much pleased by this letter, and yet she wept over it.
She felt that she understood accurately all the motives that were
at work within the man's breast when he was writing it. As to its
truth,--of course the letter was gospel to her. Oh,--if the man
could become her husband's friend how sweet it would be! Of course
she wished, thoroughly wished, that her husband should succeed at
Silverbridge. But she could understand that such a contest as this
might be carried on without personal animosity. The letter was so
like Arthur Fletcher,--so good, so noble, so generous, so true! The
moment her husband came in she showed it to him with delight. "I was
sure," she said as he was reading the letter, "that he had not known
that you were to stand."
"He knew it as well as I did," he replied, and as he spoke there
came a dark scowl across his brow. "His writing to you is a piece of
infernal impudence."
"Oh, Ferdinand!"
"You don't understand, but I do. He deserves to be horsewhipped for
daring to write to you, and if I can come across him he shall have
it."
"Oh,--for heaven's sake!"
"A man who was your rejected lover,--who has been trying to marry you
for the last two years, presuming to commence a correspondence with
you without your husband's sanction!"
"He meant you to see it. He says I am to tell you."
"Psha! That is simple cowardice. He meant you not to tell me; and
then when you had answered him without telling me, he would have had
the whip-hand of you."
"Oh, Ferdinand, what evil thoughts you have!"
"You are a child, my dear, and must allow me to dictate to you what
you ought to think in such a matter as this. I tell you he knew all
about my candidature, and that what he has said here to the contrary
is a mere lie;--yes, a lie." He repeated the word because he saw
that she shrank at hearing it; but he did not understand why she
shrank,--that the idea of such an accusation against Arthur Fletcher
was intolerable to her. "I have never heard of such a thing," he
continued. "Do you suppose it is common for men who have been thrown
over to write to the ladies who have rejected them immediately after
their marriage?"
"Do not the circumstances justify it?"
"No;--they make it infinitely worse. He should have felt himself to
be debarred from writing to you, both as being my wife and as being
the wife of the man whom he intends to oppose at Silverbridge."
This he said with so much anger that he frightened her. "It is not my
fault," she said.
"No; it is not your fault. But you should regard it as a great fault
committed by him."
"What am I to do?"
"Give me the letter. You, of course, can do nothing."
"You will not quarrel with him?"
"Certainly I will. I have quarrelled with him already. Do you think
I will allow any man to insult my wife without quarrelling with him?
What I shall do I cannot yet say, and whatever I may do, you had
better not know. I never thought much of these Herefordshire swells
who believe themselves to be the very cream of the earth, and now I
think less of them than ever."
He was then silent, and slowly she took herself out of the room, and
went away to dress. All this was very terrible. He had never been
rough to her before, and she could not at all understand why he had
been so rough to her now. Surely it was impossible that he should
be jealous because her old lover had written to her such a letter
as that which she had shown him! And then she was almost stunned by
the opinions he had expressed about Fletcher, opinions which she
knew,--was sure that she knew,--to be absolutely erroneous. A liar!
Oh, heavens! And then the letter itself was so ingenuous and so
honest! Anxious as she was to do all that her husband bade her, she
could not be guided by him in this matter. And then she remembered
his words: "You must allow me to dictate to you what you ought to
think." Could it be that marriage meant as much as that,--that a
husband was to claim to dictate to his wife what opinions she was
to form about this and that person,--about a person she had known
so well, whom he had never known? Surely she could only think in
accordance with her own experience and her own intelligence! She was
certain that Arthur Fletcher was no liar. Not even her own husband
could make her think that.