Showing That a Man Should Not Howl
Arthur Fletcher, in his letter to Mrs. Lopez, had told her that when
he found out who was to be his antagonist at Silverbridge, it was too
late for him to give up the contest. He was, he said, bound in faith
to continue it by what had passed between himself and others. But in
truth he had not reached his conclusion without some persuasion from
others. He had been at Longbarns with his brother when he first heard
that Lopez intended to stand, and he at once signified his desire
to give way. The information reached him from Mr. Frank Gresham, of
Greshamsbury, a gentleman connected with the De Courcys who was now
supposed to represent the De Courcy interest in the county, and who
had first suggested to Arthur that he should come forward. It was
held at Longbarns that Arthur was bound in honour to Mr. Gresham and
to Mr. Gresham's friends, and to this opinion he had yielded.
Since Emily Wharton's marriage her name had never been mentioned at
Longbarns in Arthur's presence. When he was away,--and of course his
life was chiefly passed in London,--old Mrs. Fletcher was free enough
in her abuse of the silly creature who had allowed herself to be
taken out of her own rank by a Portuguese Jew. But she had been made
to understand by her elder son, the lord of Longbarns, that not a
word was to be said when Arthur was there. "I think he ought to be
taught to forget her," Mrs. Fletcher had said. But John in his own
quiet but imperious way, had declared that there were some men to
whom such lessons could not be taught, and that Arthur was one of
them. "Is he never to get a wife, then?" Mrs. Fletcher had asked.
John wouldn't pretend to answer that question, but was quite sure
that his brother would not be tempted into other matrimonial
arrangements by anything that could be said against Emily Lopez. When
Mrs. Fletcher declared in her extreme anger that Arthur was a fool
for his trouble, John did not contradict her, but declared that the
folly was of a nature to require tender treatment.
Matters were in this condition at Longbarns when Arthur communicated
to his brother the contents of Mr. Gresham's letter, and expressed
his own purpose of giving up Silverbridge. "I don't quite see that,"
said John.
"No;--and it is impossible that you should be expected to see it. I
don't quite know how to talk about it even to you, though I think you
are about the softest-hearted fellow out."
"I don't acknowledge the soft heart;--but go on."
"I don't want to interfere with that man. I have a sort of feeling
that as he has got her he might as well have the seat too."
"The seat, as you call it, is not there for his gratification or for
yours. The seat is there in order that the people of Silverbridge may
be represented in Parliament."
"Let them get somebody else. I don't want to put myself in opposition
to him, and I certainly do not want to oppose her."
"They can't change their candidate in that way at a day's notice.
You would be throwing Gresham over, and, if you ask me, I think
that is a thing you have no right to do. This objection of yours is
sentimental, and there is nothing of which a man should be so much
in dread as sentimentalism. It is not your fault that you oppose
Mr. Lopez. You were in the field first, and you must go on with it."
John Fletcher, when he spoke in this way, was, at Longbarns, always
supposed to be right; and on the present occasion he, as usual,
prevailed. Then Arthur Fletcher wrote his letter to the lady. He
would not have liked to have had it known that the composition and
copying of that little note had cost him an hour. He had wished that
she should understand his feelings, and yet it was necessary that
he should address her in words that should be perfectly free from
affection or emotion. He must let her know that, though he wrote to
her, the letter was for her husband as well as for herself, and he
must do this in a manner which would not imply any fear that his
writing to her would be taken amiss. The letter when completed was at
any rate simple and true; and yet, as we know, it was taken very much
amiss.
Arthur Fletcher had by no means recovered from the blow he had
received that day when Emily had told him everything down by the
river side; but then, it must be said of him, that he had no
intention of recovery. He was as a man who, having taken a burden
on his back, declares to himself that he will, for certain reasons,
carry it throughout his life. The man knows that with the burden he
cannot walk as men walk who are unencumbered, but for those reasons
of his he has chosen to lade himself, and having done so he abandons
regret and submits to his circumstances. So had it been with him.
He would make no attempt to throw off the load. It was now far back
in his life, as much at least as three years, since he had first
assured himself of his desire to make Emily Wharton the companion
of his life. From that day she had been the pivot on which his whole
existence had moved. She had refused his offers more than once, but
had done so with so much tender kindness, that, though he had found
himself to be wounded and bruised, he had never abandoned his object.
Her father and all his own friends encouraged him. He was continually
told that her coldness was due to the simple fact that she had not
yet learned to give her heart away. And so he had persevered, being
ever thoroughly intent on his purpose, till he was told by herself
that her love was given to this other man.
Then he knew that it behoved him to set some altered course of life
before him. He could not shoot his rival or knock him over the head,
nor could he carry off his girl, as used to be done in rougher times.
There was nothing now for a man in such a catastrophe as this but
submission. But he might submit and shake off his burden, or submit
and carry it hopelessly. He told himself that he would do the latter.
She had been his goddess, and he would not now worship at another
shrine. And then ideas came into his head,--not hopes, or purposes,
or a belief even in any possibility,--but vague ideas, mere castles
in the air, that a time might come in which it might be in his power
to serve her, and to prove to her beyond doubting what had been the
nature of his love. Like others of his family, he thought ill of
Lopez, believing the man to be an adventurer, one who would too
probably fall into misfortune, however high he might now seem to hold
his head. He was certainly a man not standing on the solid basis of
land, or of Three per Cents,--those solidities to which such as the
Whartons and Fletchers are wont to trust. No doubt, should there be
such fall, the man's wife would have other help than that of her
rejected lover. She had a father, brother, and cousins, who would
also be there to aid her. The idea was, therefore, but a castle in
the air. And yet it was dear to him. At any rate he resolved that he
would live for it, and that the woman should still be his goddess,
though she was the wife of another man, and might now perhaps never
even be seen by him. Then there came upon him, immediately almost
after her marriage, the necessity of writing to her. The task was one
which, of course, he did not perform lightly.
He never said a word of this to anybody else;--but his brother
understood it all, and in a somewhat silent fashion fully sympathised
with him. John could not talk to him about love, or mark passages of
poetry for him to read, or deal with him at all romantically; but he
could take care that his brother had the best horses to ride, and the
warmest corner out shooting, and that everything in the house should
be done for his brother's comfort. As the squire looked and spoke
at Longbarns, others looked and spoke,--so that everybody knew that
Mr. Arthur was to be contradicted in nothing. Had he, just at this
period, ordered a tree in the park to be cut down, it would, I think,
have been cut down, without reference to the master! But, perhaps,
John's power was most felt in the way in which he repressed the
expressions of his mother's high indignation. "Mean slut!" she once
said, speaking of Emily in her eldest son's hearing. For the girl,
to her thinking, had been mean and had been a slut. She had not
known,--so Mrs. Fletcher thought,--what birth and blood required of
her.
"Mother," John Fletcher had said, "you would break Arthur's heart if
he heard you speak in that way, and I am sure you would drive him
from Longbarns. Keep it to yourself." The old woman had shaken her
head angrily, but she had endeavoured to do as she had been bid.
"Isn't your brother riding that horse a little rashly?" Reginald
Cotgrave said to John Fletcher in the hunting field one day.
"I didn't observe," said John; "but whatever horse he's on, he always
rides rashly." Arthur was mounted on a long, raking thorough-bred
black animal, which he had bought himself about a month ago, and
which, having been run at steeplechases, rushed at every fence as
though he were going to swallow it. His brother had begged him to put
some rough-rider up till the horse could be got to go quietly, but
Arthur had persevered. And during the whole of this day the squire
had been in a tremor, lest there should be some accident.
"He used to have a little more judgment, I think," said Cotgrave. "He
went at that double just now as hard as the brute could tear. If the
horse hadn't done it all, where would he have been?"
"In the further ditch, I suppose. But you see the horse did do it
all."
This was all very well as an answer to Reginald Cotgrave,--to whom
it was not necessary that Fletcher should explain the circumstances.
But the squire had known as well as Cotgrave that his brother had
been riding rashly, and he had understood the reason why. "I don't
think a man ought to break his neck," he said, "because he can't
get everything that he wishes." The two brothers were standing then
together before the fire in the squire's own room, having just come
in from hunting.
"Who is going to break his neck?"
"They tell me that you tried to to-day."
"Because I was riding a pulling horse. I'll back him to be the
biggest leaper and the quickest horse in Herefordshire."
"I dare say,--though for the matter of that the chances are very much
against it. But a man shouldn't ride so as to have those things said
of him."
"What is a fellow to do if he can't hold a horse?"
"Get off him."
"That's nonsense, John!"
"No, it's not. You know what I mean very well. If I were to lose half
my property to-morrow, don't you think it would cut me up a good
deal?"
"It would me, I know."
"But what would you think of me if I howled about it?"
"Do I howl?" asked Arthur angrily.
"Every man howls who is driven out of his ordinary course by any
trouble. A man howls if he goes about frowning always."
"Do I frown?"
"Or laughing."
"Do I laugh?"
"Or galloping over the country like a mad devil who wants to get rid
of his debts by breaking his neck. Æquam memento--. You remember all
that, don't you?"
"I remember it; but it isn't so easy to do it."
"Try. There are other things to be done in life except getting
married. You are going into Parliament."
"I don't know that."
"Gresham tells me there isn't a doubt about it. Think of that. Fix
your mind upon it. Don't take it only as an accident, but as the
thing you're to live for. If you'll do that,--if you'll so manage
that there shall be something to be done in Parliament which only you
can do, you won't ride a runaway horse as you did that brute to-day."
Arthur looked up into his brother's face almost weeping. "We expect
much of you, you know. I'm not a man to do anything except be a good
steward for the family property, and keep the old house from falling
down. You're a clever fellow,--so that between us, if we both do our
duty, the Fletchers may still thrive in the land. My house shall be
your house, and my wife your wife, and my children your children. And
then the honour you win shall be my honour. Hold up your head,--and
sell that beast." Arthur Fletcher squeezed his brother's hand and
went away to dress.