As for Love!
The time spent by Mrs. Lopez at Dovercourt was by no means one of
complete happiness. Her husband did not come down very frequently,
alleging that his business kept him in town, and that the journey was
too long. When he did come he annoyed her either by moroseness and
tyranny, or by an affectation of loving good-humour, which was the
more disagreeable alternative of the two. She knew that he had no
right to be good-humoured, and she was quite able to appreciate the
difference between fictitious love and love that was real. He did not
while she was at Dovercourt speak to her again directly about her
father's money,--but he gave her to understand that he required from
her very close economy. Then again she referred to the brougham which
she knew was to be in readiness on her return to London; but he told
her that he was the best judge of that. The economy which he demanded
was that comfortless heart-rending economy which nips the practiser
at every turn, but does not betray itself to the world at large. He
would have her save out of her washerwoman and linendraper, and yet
have a smart gown and go in a brougham. He begrudged her postage
stamps, and stopped the subscription at Mudie's, though he insisted
on a front seat in the Dovercourt church, paying half a guinea more
for it than he would for a place at the side. And then before their
sojourn at the place had come to an end he left her for awhile
absolutely penniless, so that when the butcher and baker called for
their money she could not pay them. That was a dreadful calamity to
her, and of which she was hardly able to measure the real worth. It
had never happened to her before to have to refuse an application for
money that was due. In her father's house such a thing, as far as she
knew, had never happened. She had sometimes heard that Everett was
impecunious, but that had simply indicated an additional call upon
her father. When the butcher came the second time she wrote to her
husband in an agony. Should she write to her father for a supply? She
was sure that her father would not leave them in actual want. Then
he sent her a cheque, enclosed in a very angry letter. Apply to her
father! Had she not learned as yet that she was not to lean on her
father any longer, but simply on him? And was she such a fool as to
suppose that a tradesman could not wait a month for his money?
During all this time she had no friend,--no person to whom she could
speak,--except Mrs. Parker. Mrs. Parker was very open and very
confidential about the business, really knowing very much more about
it than did Mrs. Lopez. There was some sympathy and confidence
between her and her husband, though they had latterly been much
lessened by Sexty's conduct. Mrs. Parker talked daily about the
business now that her mouth had been opened, and was very clearly of
opinion that it was not a good business. "Sexty don't think it good
himself," she said.
"Then why does he go on with it?"
"Business is a thing, Mrs. Lopez, as people can't drop out of just at
a moment. A man gets hisself entangled, and must free hisself as best
he can. I know he's terribly afeard;--and sometimes he does say such
things of your husband!" Emily shrunk almost into herself as she
heard this. "You mustn't be angry, for indeed it's better you should
know all."
"I'm not angry; only very unhappy. Surely Mr. Parker could separate
himself from Mr. Lopez if he pleased?"
"That's what I say to him. Give it up, though it be ever so much as
you've to lose by him. Give it up, and begin again. You've always got
your experience, and if it's only a crust you can earn, that's sure
and safe. But then he declares that he means to pull through yet. I
know what men are at when they talk of pulling through, Mrs. Lopez.
There shouldn't be no need of pulling through. It should all come
just of its own accord,--little and little; but safe." Then, when
the days of their marine holiday were coming to an end,--in the
first week in October,--the day before the return of the Parkers to
Ponder's End, she made a strong appeal to her new friend. "You ain't
afraid of him; are you?"
"Of my husband?" said Mrs. Lopez. "I hope not. Why should you ask?"
"Believe me, a woman should never be afraid of 'em. I never would
give in to be bullied and made little of by Sexty. I'd do a'most
anything to make him comfortable, I'm that soft-hearted. And why not,
when he's the father of my children? But I'm not going not to say a
thing if I thinks it right, because I'm afeard."
"I think I could say anything if I thought it right."
"Then tell him of me and my babes,--as how I can never have a quiet
night while this is going on. It isn't that they two men are fond of
one another. Nothing of the sort! Now you;--I've got to be downright
fond of you, though, of course, you think me common." Mrs. Lopez
would not contradict her, but stooped forward and kissed her cheek.
"I'm downright fond of you, I am," continued Mrs. Parker, snuffling
and sobbing, "but they two men are only together because Mr. Lopez
wants to gamble, and Parker has got a little money to gamble with."
This aspect of the thing was so terrible to Mrs. Lopez that she could
only weep and hide her face. "Now, if you would tell him just the
truth! Tell him what I say, and that I've been a-saying it! Tell him
it's for my children I'm a-speaking, who won't have bread in their
very mouths if their father's squeezed dry like a sponge! Sure, if
you'd tell him this, he wouldn't go on!" Then she paused a moment,
looking up into the other woman's face. "He'd have some bowels of
compassion;--wouldn't he now?"
"I'll try," said Mrs. Lopez.
"I know you're good and kind-hearted, my dear. I saw it in your
eyes from the very first. But them men, when they get on at
money-making,--or money-losing, which makes 'em worse,--are like
tigers clawing one another. They don't care how many they kills, so
that they has the least bit for themselves. There ain't no fear of
God in it, nor yet no mercy, nor ere a morsel of heart. It ain't
what I call manly,--not that longing after other folks' money. When
it's come by hard work, as I tell Sexty,--by the very sweat of his
brow,--oh,--it's sweet as sweet. When he'd tell me that he'd made his
three pound, or his five pound, or, perhaps, his ten pound in a day,
and'd calculate it up, how much it'd come to if he did that every
day, and where we could go to, and what we could do for the children,
I loved to hear him talk about his money. But now--! why, it's
altered the looks of the man altogether. It's just as though he was
a-thirsting for blood."
Thirsting for blood! Yes, indeed. It was the very idea that had
occurred to Mrs. Lopez herself when her husband had bade her to "get
round her father." No;--it certainly was not manly. There certainly
was neither fear of God in it, nor mercy. Yes;--she would try. But as
for bowels of compassion in Ferdinand Lopez--; she, the young wife,
had already seen enough of her husband to think that he was not to be
moved by any prayers on that side. Then the two women bade each other
farewell. "Parker has been talking of my going to Manchester Square,"
said Mrs. Parker, "but I shan't. What'd I be in Manchester Square?
And, besides, there'd better be an end of it. Mr. Lopez'd turn Sexty
and me out of the house at a moment's notice if it wasn't for the
money."
"It's papa's house," said Mrs. Lopez, not, however, meaning to make
an attack on her husband.
"I suppose so, but I shan't come to trouble no one; and we live ever
so far away, at Ponder's End,--out of your line altogether, Mrs.
Lopez. But I've taken to you, and will never think ill of you any
way;--only do as you said you would."
"I will try," said Mrs. Lopez.
In the meantime Lopez had received from Mr. Wharton an answer to his
letter about the missing caravels, which did not please him. Here is
the letter:--
MY DEAR LOPEZ,
I cannot say that your statement is satisfactory, nor can
I reconcile it to your assurance to me that you have made
a trade income for some years past of £2000 a year. I do
not know much of business, but I cannot imagine such a
result from such a condition of things as you describe.
Have you any books; and, if so, will you allow them to be
inspected by any accountant I may name?
You say that a sum of £20,000 would suit your business
better now than when I'm dead. Very likely. But with such
an account of the business as that you have given me, I do
not know that I feel disposed to confide the savings of my
life to assist so very doubtful an enterprise. Of course
whatever I may do to your advantage will be done for the
sake of Emily and her children, should she have any. As
far as I can see at present, I shall best do my duty
to her, by leaving what I may have to leave to her, to
trustees, for her benefit and that of her children.
Yours truly,
A. WHARTON.
This, of course, did not tend to mollify the spirit of the man to
whom it was written, or to make him gracious towards his wife. He
received the letter three weeks before the lodgings at Dovercourt
were given up,--but during these three weeks he was very little
at the place, and when there did not mention the letter. On these
occasions he said nothing about business, but satisfied himself with
giving strict injunctions as to economy. Then he took her back to
town on the day after her promise to Mrs. Parker that she would
"try." Mrs. Parker had told her that no woman ought to be afraid to
speak to her husband, and, if necessary, to speak roundly on such
subjects. Mrs. Parker was certainly not a highly educated lady, but
she had impressed Emily with an admiration for her practical good
sense and proper feeling. The lady who was a lady had begun to
feel that in the troubles of her life she might find a much less
satisfactory companion than the lady who was not a lady. She would do
as Mrs. Parker had told her. She would not be afraid. Of course it
was right that she should speak on such a matter. She knew herself
to be an obedient wife. She had borne all her unexpected sorrows
without a complaint, with a resolve that she would bear all for his
sake,--not because she loved him, but because she had made herself
his wife. Into whatever calamities he might fall, she would share
them. Though he should bring her utterly into the dirt, she would
remain in the dirt with him. It seemed probable to her that it might
be so,--that they might have to go into the dirt;--and if it were
so, she would still be true to him. She had chosen to marry him, and
she would be his true wife. But, as such, she would not be afraid of
him. Mrs. Parker had told her that "a woman should never be afraid
of 'em," and she believed in Mrs. Parker. In this case, too, it was
clearly her duty to speak,--for the injury being done was terrible,
and might too probably become tragical. How could she endure to think
of that woman and her children, should she come to know that the
husband of the woman and the father of the children had been ruined
by her husband?
Yes,--she would speak to him. But she did fear. It is all very well
for a woman to tell herself that she will encounter some anticipated
difficulty without fear,--or for a man either. The fear cannot be
overcome by will. The thing, however, may be done, whether it be
leading a forlorn hope, or speaking to an angry husband,--in spite
of fear. She would do it; but when the moment for doing it came, her
very heart trembled within her. He had been so masterful with her,
so persistent in repudiating her interference, so exacting in his
demands for obedience, so capable of making her miserable by his
moroseness when she failed to comply with his wishes, that she could
not go to her task without fear. But she did feel that she ought not
to be afraid, or that her fears, at any rate, should not be allowed
to restrain her. A wife, she knew, should be prepared to yield, but
yet was entitled to be her husband's counsellor. And it was now the
case that in this matter she was conversant with circumstances which
were unknown to her husband. It was to her that Mrs. Parker's appeal
had been made, and with a direct request from the poor woman that it
should be repeated to her husband's partner.
She found that she could not do it on the journey home from
Dovercourt, nor yet on that evening. Mrs. Dick Roby, who had come
back from a sojourn at Boulogne, was with them in the Square, and
brought her dear friend Mrs. Leslie with her, and also Lady Eustace.
The reader may remember that Mr. Wharton had met these ladies at
Mrs. Dick's house some months before his daughter's marriage, but he
certainly had never asked them into his own. On this occasion Emily
had given them no invitation, but had been told by her husband that
her aunt would probably bring them in with her. "Mrs. Leslie and Lady
Eustace!" she exclaimed with a little shudder. "I suppose your aunt
may bring a couple of friends with her to see you, though it is your
father's house?" he had replied. She had said no more, not daring to
have a fight on that subject at present, while the other matter was
pressing on her mind. The evening had passed away pleasantly enough,
she thought, to all except herself. Mrs. Leslie and Lady Eustace
had talked a great deal, and her husband had borne himself quite
as though he had been a wealthy man and the owner of the house in
Manchester Square. In the course of the evening Dick Roby came in and
Major Pountney, who since the late affairs at Silverbridge had become
intimate with Lopez. So that there was quite a party; and Emily was
astonished to hear her husband declare that he was only watching the
opportunity of another vacancy in order that he might get into the
House, and expose the miserable duplicity of the Duke of Omnium. And
yet this man, within the last month, had taken away her subscription
at Mudie's, and told her that she shouldn't wear things that wanted
washing! But he was able to say ever so many pretty little things to
Lady Eustace, and had given a new fan to Mrs. Dick, and talked of
taking a box for Mrs. Leslie at The Gaiety.
But on the next morning before breakfast she began. "Ferdinand," she
said, "while I was at Dovercourt I saw a good deal of Mrs. Parker."
"I could not help that. Or rather you might have helped it if you
pleased. It was necessary that you should meet, but I didn't tell you
that you were to see a great deal of her."
"I liked her very much."
"Then I must say you've got a very odd taste. Did you like him?"
"No. I did not see so much of him, and I think that the manners of
women are less objectionable than those of men. But I want to tell
you what passed between her and me."
"If it is about her husband's business she ought to have held her
tongue, and you had better hold yours now."
This was not a happy beginning, but still she was determined to go
on. "It was I think more about your business than his."
"Then it was infernal impudence on her part, and you should not have
listened to her for a moment."
"You do not want to ruin her and her children!"
"What have I to do with her and her children? I did not marry her,
and I am not their father. He has got to look to that."
"She thinks that you are enticing him into risks which he cannot
afford."
"Am I doing anything for him that I ain't doing for myself! If there
is money made, will not he share it? If money has to be lost, of
course he must do the same." Lopez in stating his case omitted to
say that whatever capital was now being used belonged to his partner.
"But women when they get together talk all manner of nonsense. Is it
likely that I shall alter my course of action because you tell me
that she tells you that he tells her that he is losing money? He is a
half-hearted fellow who quails at every turn against him. And when he
is crying drunk I dare say he makes a poor mouth to her."
"I think, Ferdinand, it is more than that. She says that--"
"To tell you the truth, Emily, I don't care a d---- what she says.
Now give me some tea."
The roughness of this absolutely quelled her. It was not now that
she was afraid of him,--not at this moment, but that she was knocked
down as though by a blow. She had been altogether so unused to such
language that she could not get on with her matter in hand, letting
the bad word pass by her as an unmeaning expletive. She wearily
poured out the cup of tea and sat herself down silent. The man was
too strong for her, and would be so always. She told herself at this
moment that language such as that must always absolutely silence her.
Then, within a few minutes, he desired her, quite cheerfully, to ask
her uncle and aunt to dinner the day but one following, and also to
ask Lady Eustace and Mrs. Leslie. "I will pick up a couple of men,
which will make us all right," he said.
This was in every way horrible to her. Her father had been back in
town, had not been very well, and had been recommended to return
to the country. He had consequently removed himself,--not to
Herefordshire,--but to Brighton, and was now living at an hotel,
almost within an hour of London. Had he been at home he certainly
would not have invited Mrs. Leslie and Lady Eustace to his house. He
had often expressed a feeling of dislike to the former lady in the
hearing of his son-in-law, and had ridiculed his sister-in-law for
allowing herself to be made acquainted with Lady Eustace, whose name
had at one time been very common in the mouths of people. Emily also
felt that she was hardly entitled to give a dinner-party in his house
in his absence. And, after all that she had lately heard about her
husband's poverty, she could not understand how he should wish to
incur the expense. "You would not ask Mrs. Leslie here!" she said.
"Why should we not ask Mrs. Leslie?"
"Papa dislikes her."
"But 'papa,' as you call him, isn't going to meet her."
"He has said that he doesn't know what day he may be home. And he
does more than dislike her. He disapproves of her."
"Nonsense! She is your aunt's friend. Because your father once heard
some cock-and-bull story about her, and because he has always taken
upon himself to criticise your aunt's friends, I am not to be civil
to a person I like."
"But, Ferdinand, I do not like her myself. She never was in this
house till the other night."
"Look here, my dear, Lady Eustace can be useful to me, and I cannot
ask Lady Eustace without asking her friend. You do as I bid you,--or
else I shall do it myself."
She paused for a moment, and then she positively refused. "I cannot
bring myself to ask Mrs. Leslie to dine in this house. If she comes
to dine with you, of course I shall sit at the table, but she will be
sure to see that she is not welcome."
"It seems to me that you are determined to go against me in
everything I propose."
"I don't think you would say that if you knew how miserable you made
me."
"I tell you that that other woman can be very useful to me."
"In what way useful?"
"Are you jealous, my dear?"
"Certainly not of Lady Eustace,--nor of any woman. But it seems so
odd that such a person's services should be required."
"Will you do as I tell you, and ask them? You can go round and tell
your aunt about it. She knows that I mean to ask them. Lady Eustace
is a very rich woman, and is disposed to do a little in commerce. Now
do you understand?"
"Not in the least," said Emily.
"Why shouldn't a woman who has money buy coffee as well as buy
shares?"
"Does she buy shares?"
"By George, Emily, I think that you're a fool."
"I dare say I am, Ferdinand. I do not in the least know what it all
means. But I do know this, that you ought not, in papa's absence, to
ask people to dine here whom he particularly dislikes, and whom he
would not wish to have in his house."
"You think that I am to be governed by you in such a matter as that?"
"I do not want to govern you."
"You think that a wife should dictate to a husband as to the way in
which he is to do his work, and the partners he may be allowed to
have in his business, and the persons whom he may ask to dinner!
Because you have been dictating to me on all these matters. Now, look
here, my dear. As to my business, you had better never speak to me
about it any more. I have endeavoured to take you into my confidence
and to get you to act with me, but you have declined that, and have
preferred to stick to your father. As to my partners, whether I may
choose to have Sexty Parker or Lady Eustace, I am a better judge
than you. And as to asking Mrs. Leslie and Lady Eustace or any other
persons to dinner, as I am obliged to make even the recreations of
life subservient to its work, I must claim permission to have my own
way." She had listened, but when he paused she made no reply. "Do you
mean to do as I bid you and ask these ladies?"
"I cannot do that. I know that it ought not to be done. This is
papa's house, and we are living here as his guests."
"D---- your papa!" he said as he burst out of the room. After a
quarter of an hour he put his head again into the room and saw her
sitting, like a statue, exactly where he had left her. "I have
written the notes both to Lady Eustace and to Mrs. Leslie," he said.
"You can't think it any sin at any rate to ask your aunt."
"I will see my aunt," she said.
"And remember I am not going to be your father's guest, as you call
it. I mean to pay for the dinner myself, and to send in my own wines.
Your father shall have nothing to complain of on that head."
"Could you not ask them to Richmond, or to some hotel?" she said.
"What; in October! If you think that I am going to live in a house in
which I can't invite a friend to dinner, you are mistaken." And with
that he took his departure.
The whole thing had now become so horrible to her that she felt
unable any longer to hold up her head. It seemed to her to be
sacrilege that these women should come and sit in her father's room;
but when she spoke of her father her husband had cursed him with
scorn! Lopez was going to send food and wine into the house, which
would be gall and wormwood to her father. At one time she thought she
would at once write to her father and tell him of it all,--or perhaps
telegraph to him; but she could not do so without letting her husband
know what she had done, and then he would have justice on his side in
calling her disobedient. Were she to do that, then it would indeed be
necessary that she should take part against her husband.
She had brought all this misery on herself and on her father because
she had been obstinate in thinking that she could with certainty
read a lover's character. As for love,--that of course had died
away in her heart,--imperceptibly, though, alas, so quickly! It was
impossible that she could continue to love a man who from day to day
was teaching her mean lessons, and who was ever doing mean things,
the meanness of which was so little apparent to himself that he did
not scruple to divulge them to her. How could she love a man who
would make no sacrifice either to her comfort, her pride, or her
conscience? But still she might obey him,--if she could feel sure
that obedience to him was a duty. Could it be a duty to sin against
her father's wishes, and to assist in profaning his house and abusing
his hospitality after this fashion? Then her mind again went back to
the troubles of Mrs. Parker, and her absolute inefficiency in that
matter. It seemed to her that she had given herself over body and
soul and mind to some evil genius, and that there was no escape.
"Of course we'll come," Mrs. Roby had said to her when she went round
the corner into Berkeley Street early in the day. "Lopez spoke to me
about it before."
"What will papa say about it, Aunt Harriet?"
"I suppose he and Lopez understand each other."
"I do not think papa will understand this."
"I am sure Mr. Wharton would not lend his house to his son-in-law,
and then object to the man he had lent it to asking a friend to dine
with him. And I am sure that Mr. Lopez would not consent to occupy a
house on those terms. If you don't like it, of course we won't come."
"Pray don't say that. As these other women are to come, pray do not
desert me. But I cannot say I think it is right." Mrs. Dick, however,
only laughed at her scruples.
In the course of the evening Emily got letters addressed to herself
from Lady Eustace and Mrs. Leslie, informing her that they would
have very much pleasure in dining with her on the day named. And
Lady Eustace went on to say, with much pleasantry, that she always
regarded little parties, got up without any ceremony, as being the
pleasantest, and that she should come on this occasion without any
ceremonial observance. Then Emily was aware that her husband had not
only written the notes in her name, but had put into her mouth some
studied apology as to the shortness of the invitation. Well! She was
the man's wife, and she supposed that he was entitled to put any
words that he pleased into her mouth.