"Get Round Him"
Ferdinand Lopez maintained his anger against his wife for more than a
week after the scene at Richmond, feeding it with reflections on what
he called her disobedience. Nor was it a make-believe anger. She had
declared her intention to act in opposition to his expressed orders.
He felt that his present condition was prejudicial to his interests,
and that he must take his wife back into favour, in order that he
might make progress with her father, but could hardly bring himself
to swallow his wrath. He thought that it was her duty to obey him
in everything,--and that disobedience on a matter touching her old
lover was an abominable offence, to be visited with severest marital
displeasure, and with a succession of scowls that should make her
miserable for a month at least. Nor on her behalf would he have
hesitated, though the misery might have continued for three months.
But then the old man was the main hope of his life, and must be made
its mainstay. Brilliant prospects were before him. He had used to
think that Mr. Wharton was a hale man, with some terribly vexatious
term of life before him. But now, now that he was seen more closely,
he appeared to be very old. He would sit half bent in the arm-chair
in Stone Buildings, and look as though he were near a hundred. And
from day to day he seemed to lean more upon his son-in-law, whose
visits to him were continued, and always well taken. The constant
subject of discourse between them was Everett Wharton, who had not
yet seen his father since the misfortune of their quarrel. Everett
had declared to Lopez a dozen times that he would go to his father if
his father wished it, and Lopez as often reported to the father that
Everett would not go to him unless the father expressed such a wish.
And so they had been kept apart. Lopez did not suppose that the old
man would disinherit his son altogether,--did not, perhaps, wish it.
But he thought that the condition of the old man's mind would affect
the partition of his property, and that the old man would surely make
some new will in the present state of his affairs. The old man always
asked after his daughter, begging that she would come to him, and at
last it was necessary that an evening should be fixed. "We shall be
delighted to come to-day or to-morrow," Lopez said.
"We had better say to-morrow. There would be nothing to eat to-day.
The house isn't now what it used to be." It was therefore expedient
that Lopez should drop his anger when he got home, and prepare his
wife to dine in Manchester Square in a proper frame of mind.
Her misery had been extreme;--very much more bitter than he had
imagined. It was not only that his displeasure made her life for
the time wearisome, and robbed the only society she had of all its
charms. It was not only that her heart was wounded by his anger.
Those evils might have been short-lived. But she had seen,--she could
not fail to see,--that his conduct was unworthy of her and of her
deep love. Though she struggled hard against the feeling, she could
not but despise the meanness of his jealousy. She knew thoroughly
well that there had been no grain of offence in that letter from
Arthur Fletcher,--and she knew that no man, no true man, would have
taken offence at it. She tried to quench her judgment, and to silence
the verdict which her intellect gave against him, but her intellect
was too strong even for her heart. She was beginning to learn that
the god of her idolatry was but a little human creature, and that she
should not have worshipped at so poor a shrine. But nevertheless the
love should be continued, and, if possible, the worship, though the
idol had been already found to have feet of clay. He was her husband,
and she would be true to him. As morning after morning he left her,
still with that harsh, unmanly frown upon his face, she would look up
at him with entreating eyes, and when he returned would receive him
with her fondest smile.
At length he, too, smiled. He came to her after that interview with
Mr. Wharton and told her, speaking with the soft yet incisive voice
which she used to love so well, that they were to dine in the Square
on the following day. "Let there be an end of all this," he said,
taking her in his arms and kissing her. Of course she did not tell
him that "all this" had sprung from his ill-humour and not from hers.
"I own I have been angry," he continued. "I will say nothing more
about it now; but that man did vex me."
"I have been so sorry that you should have been vexed."
"Well;--let it pass away. I don't think your father is looking very
well."
"He is not ill?"
"Oh no. He feels the loss of your society. He is so much alone. You
must be more with him."
"Has he not seen Everett yet?"
"No. Everett is not behaving altogether well." Emily was made unhappy
by this and showed it. "He is the best fellow in the world. I may
safely say there is no other man whom I regard so warmly as I do your
brother. But he takes wrong ideas into his head, and nothing will
knock them out. I wonder what your father has done about his will."
"I have not an idea. Nothing you may be sure will make him unjust to
Everett."
"Ah!--You don't happen to know whether he ever made a will?"
"Not at all. He would be sure to say nothing about it to me,--or to
anybody."
"That is a kind of secrecy which I think wrong. It leads to so much
uncertainty. You wouldn't like to ask him?"
"No;--certainly."
"It is astonishing to me how afraid you are of your father. He hasn't
any land, has he?"
"Land!"
"Real estate. You know what I mean. He couldn't well have landed
property without your knowing it." She shook her head. "It might make
an immense difference to us, you know."
"Why so?"
"If he were to die without a will, any land,--houses and that kind
of property,--would go to Everett. I never knew a man who told his
children so little. I want to make you understand these things. You
and I will be badly off if he doesn't do something for us."
"You don't think he is really ill?"
"No;--not ill. Men above seventy are apt to die, you know."
"Oh, Ferdinand,--what a way to talk of it!"
"Well, my love, the thing is so seriously matter-of-fact, that it
is better to look at it in a matter-of-fact way. I don't want your
father to die."
"I hope not. I hope not."
"But I should be very glad to learn what he means to do while he
lives. I want to get you into sympathy with me in this matter;--but
it is so difficult."
"Indeed I sympathise with you."
"The truth is he has taken an aversion to Everett."
"God forbid!"
"I am doing all I can to prevent it. But if he does throw Everett
over we ought to have the advantage of it. There is no harm in saying
as much as that. Think what it would be if he should take it into
his head to leave his money to hospitals. My G----; fancy what my
condition would be if I were to hear of such a will as that! If he
destroyed an old will, partly because he didn't like our marriage,
and partly in anger against Everett, and then died without making
another, the property would be divided,--unless he had bought land.
You see how many dangers there are. Oh dear! I can look forward and
see myself mad,--or else see myself so proudly triumphant!" All
this horrified her, but he did not see her horror. He knew that she
disliked it, but thought that she disliked the trouble, and that she
dreaded her father. "Now I do think that you could help me a little,"
he continued.
"What can I do?"
"Get round him when he's a little down in the mouth. That is the way
in which old men are conquered." How utterly ignorant he was of the
very nature of her mind and disposition! To be told by her husband
that she was to "get round" her father! "You should see him every
day. He would be delighted if you would go to him at his chambers. Or
you could take care to be in the Square when he comes home. I don't
know whether we had not better leave this and go and live near him.
Would you mind that?"
"I would do anything you would suggest as to living anywhere."
"But you won't do anything I suggest as to your father."
"As to being with him, if I thought he wished it,--though I had to
walk my feet off, I would go to him."
"There's no need of hurting your feet. There's the brougham."
"I do so wish, Ferdinand, you would discontinue the brougham. I don't
at all want it. I don't at all dislike cabs. And I was only joking
about walking. I walk very well."
"Certainly not. You fail altogether to understand my ideas about
things. If things were going bad with us, I would infinitely prefer
getting a pair of horses for you to putting down the one you have."
She certainly did not understand his ideas. "Whatever we do we must
hold our heads up. I think he is coming round to cotton to me. He is
very close, but I can see that he likes my going to him. Of course,
as he grows older from day to day, he'll constantly want some one to
lean on more than heretofore."
"I would go and stay with him if he wanted me."
"I have thought of that too. Now that would be a saving,--without any
fall. And if we were both there we could hardly fail to know what he
was doing. You could offer that, couldn't you? You could say as much
as that?"
"I could ask him if he wished it."
"Just so. Say that it occurs to you that he is lonely by himself, and
that we will both go to the Square at a moment's notice if he thinks
it will make him comfortable. I feel sure that that will be the best
step to take. I have already had an offer for these rooms, and could
get rid of the things we have bought to advantage."
This, too, was terrible to her, and at the same time altogether
unintelligible. She had been invited to buy little treasures to make
their home comfortable, and had already learned to take that delight
in her belongings which is one of the greatest pleasures of a young
married woman's life. A girl in her old home, before she is given up
to a husband, has many sources of interest, and probably from day to
day sees many people. And the man just married goes out to his work,
and occupies his time, and has his thickly-peopled world around him.
But the bride, when the bridal honours of the honeymoon are over,
when the sweet care of the first cradle has not yet come to her, is
apt to be lonely and to be driven to the contemplation of the pretty
things with which her husband and her friends have surrounded her. It
had certainly been so with this young bride, whose husband left her
in the morning and only returned for their late dinner. And now she
was told that her household gods had had a price put upon them and
that they were to be sold. She had intended to suggest that she would
pay her father a visit, and her husband immediately proposed that
they should quarter themselves permanently on the old man! She was
ready to give up her brougham, though she liked the comfort of it
well enough; but to that he would not consent because the possession
of it gave him an air of wealth; but without a moment's hesitation
he could catch at the idea of throwing upon her father the burden of
maintaining both her and himself! She understood the meaning of this.
She could read his mind so far. She endeavoured not to read the book
too closely,--but there it was, opened to her wider day by day, and
she knew that the lessons which it taught were vulgar and damnable.
And yet she had to hide from him her own perception of himself! She
had to sympathise with his desires and yet to abstain from doing
that which his desires demanded from her. Alas, poor girl! She soon
knew that her marriage had been a mistake. There was probably no
one moment in which she made the confession to herself. But the
conviction was there, in her mind, as though the confession had
been made. Then there would come upon her unbidden, unwelcome
reminiscences of Arthur Fletcher,--thoughts that she would struggle
to banish, accusing herself of some heinous crime because the
thoughts would come back to her. She remembered his light wavy hair,
which she had loved as one loves the beauty of a dog, which had
seemed to her young imagination, to her in the ignorance of her early
years, to lack something of a dreamed-of manliness. She remembered
his eager, boyish, honest entreaties to herself, which to her had
been without that dignity of a superior being which a husband should
possess. She became aware that she had thought the less of him
because he had thought the more of her. She had worshipped this other
man because he had assumed superiority and had told her that he
was big enough to be her master. But now,--now that it was all too
late,--the veil had fallen from her eyes. She could now see the
difference between manliness and "deportment." Ah,--that she should
ever have been so blind, she who had given herself credit for seeing
so much clearer than they who were her elders! And now, though at
last she did see clearly, she could not have the consolation of
telling any one what she had seen. She must bear it all in silence,
and live with it, and still love this god of clay that she had
chosen. And, above all, she must never allow herself even to think of
that other man with the wavy light hair,--that man who was rising in
the world, of whom all people said all good things, who was showing
himself to be a man by the work he did, and whose true tenderness she
could never doubt.
Her father was left to her. She could still love her father. It might
be that it would be best for him that she should go back to her old
home, and take care of his old age. If he should wish it, she would
make no difficulty of parting with the things around her. Of what
concern were the prettinesses of life to one whose inner soul was
hampered with such ugliness? It might be better that they should
live in Manchester Square,--if her father wished it. It was clear
to her now that her husband was in urgent want of money, though of
his affairs, even of his way of making money, she knew nothing. As
that was the case, of course she would consent to any practicable
retrenchment which he would propose. And then she thought of other
coming joys and coming troubles,--of how in future years she might
have to teach a girl falsely to believe that her father was a good
man, and to train a boy to honest purposes whatever parental lessons
might come from the other side.
But the mistake she had made was acknowledged. The man who could
enjoin her to "get round" her father could never have been worthy of
the love she had given him.