"I Am Disgraced and Shamed"
Soon after the commencement of the Session Arthur Fletcher became a
constant visitor in Manchester Square, dining with the old barrister
almost constantly on Sundays, and not unfrequently on other days when
the House and his general engagements would permit it. Between him
and Emily's father there was no secret and no misunderstanding. Mr.
Wharton quite understood that the young member of Parliament was
earnestly purposed to marry his daughter, and Fletcher was sure of
all the assistance and support which Mr. Wharton could give him. The
name of Lopez was very rarely used between them. It had been tacitly
agreed that there was no need that it should be mentioned. The man
had come like a destroying angel between them and their fondest
hopes. Neither could ever be what he would have been had that man
never appeared to destroy their happiness. But the man had gone away,
not without a tragedy that was appalling;--and each thought that, as
regarded him, he and the tragedy might be, if not forgotten at least
put aside, if only that other person in whom they were interested
could be taught to seem to forget him. "It is not love," said the
father, "but a feeling of shame." Arthur Fletcher shook his head,
not quite agreeing with this. It was not that he feared that she
loved the memory of her late husband. Such love was, he thought,
impossible. But there was, he believed, something more than the
feeling which her father described as shame. There was pride also;--a
determination in her own bosom not to confess the fault she had made
in giving herself to him whom she must now think to have been so much
the least worthy of her two suitors. "Her fortune will not be what I
once promised you," said the old man plaintively.
"I do not remember that I ever asked you as to her fortune," Arthur
replied.
"Certainly not. If you had I should not have told you. But as I
named a sum, it is right that I should explain to you that that man
succeeded in lessening it by six or seven thousand pounds."
"If that were all!"
"And I have promised Sir Alured that Everett, as his heir, should
have the use of a considerable portion of his share without waiting
for my death. It is odd that the one of my children from whom I
certainly expected the greater trouble should have fallen so entirely
on his feet; and that the other--; well, let us hope for the best.
Everett seems to have taken up with Wharton as though it belonged
to him already. And Emily--! Well, my dear boy, let us hope that it
may come right yet. You are not drinking your wine. Yes,--pass the
bottle; I'll have another glass before I go upstairs."
In this way the time went by till Emily returned to town. The
Ministry had just then resigned, but I think that "this great
reactionary success," as it was called by the writer in the "People's
Banner," affected one member of the Lower House much less than the
return to London of Mrs. Lopez. Arthur Fletcher had determined that
he would renew his suit as soon as a year should have expired since
the tragedy which had made his love a widow,--and that year had now
passed away. He had known the day well,--as had she, when she passed
the morning weeping in her own room at Wharton. Now he questioned
himself whether a year would suffice,--whether both in mercy to her
and with the view of realizing his own hopes he should give her some
longer time for recovery. But he had told himself that it should be
done at the end of a year, and as he had allowed no one to talk him
out of his word, so neither would he be untrue to it himself. But
it became with him a deep matter of business, a question of great
difficulty, how he should arrange the necessary interview,--whether
he should plead his case with her at their first meeting, or whether
he had better allow her to become accustomed to his presence in the
house. His mother had attempted to ridicule him, because he was, as
she said, afraid of a woman. He well remembered that he had never
been afraid of Emily Wharton when they had been quite young,--little
more than a boy and girl together. Then he had told her of his love
over and over again, and had found almost a comfortable luxury in
urging her to say a word, which she had never indeed said, but
which probably in those days he still hoped that she would say. And
occasionally he had feigned to be angry with her, and had tempted her
on to little quarrels with a boyish idea that quick reconciliation
would perhaps throw her into his arms. But now it seemed to him that
an age had passed since those days. His love had certainly not faded.
There had never been a moment when that had been on the wing. But now
the azure plumage of his love had become grey as the wings of a dove,
and the gorgeousness of his dreams had sobered into hopes and fears
which were a constant burden to his heart. There was time enough,
still time enough for happiness if she would yield;--and time enough
for the dull pressure of unsatisfied aspirations should she persist
in her refusal.
At last he saw her, almost by accident, and that meeting certainly
was not fit for the purpose of his suit. He called at Stone Buildings
the day after her arrival, and found her at her father's chambers.
She had come there keeping some appointment with him, and certainly
had not expected to meet her lover. He was confused and hardly able
to say a word to account for his presence, but she greeted him with
almost sisterly affection, saying some word of Longbarns and his
family, telling him how Everett, to Sir Alured's great delight, had
been sworn in as a magistrate for the County, and how at the last
hunt meeting John Fletcher had been asked to take the County hounds,
because old Lord Weobly at seventy-five had declared himself to
be unable any longer to ride as a master of hounds ought to ride.
All these things Arthur had of course heard, such news being too
important to be kept long from him; but on none of these subjects
had he much to say. He stuttered and stammered, and quickly went
away;--not, however, before he had promised to come and dine as usual
on the next Sunday, and not without observing that the anniversary of
that fatal day of release had done something to lighten the sombre
load of mourning which the widow had hitherto worn.
Yes;--he would dine there on the Sunday, but how would it be with him
then? Mr. Wharton never went out of the house on a Sunday evening,
and could hardly be expected to leave his own drawing-room for the
sake of giving a lover an opportunity. No;--he must wait till that
evening should have passed, and then make the occasion for himself as
best he might. The Sunday came and the dinner was eaten, and after
dinner there was the single bottle of port and the single bottle of
claret. "How do you think she is looking?" asked the father. "She was
as pale as death before we got her down into the country."
"Upon my word, sir," said he, "I've hardly looked at her. It is not a
matter of looks now, as it used to be. It has got beyond that. It is
not that I am indifferent to seeing a pretty face, or that I have no
longer an opinion of my own about a woman's figure. But there grows
up, I think, a longing which almost kills that consideration."
"To me she is as beautiful as ever," said the father proudly.
Fletcher did manage, when in the drawing-room, to talk for a while
about John and the hounds, and then went away, having resolved that
he would come again on the very next day. Surely she would not give
an order that he should be denied admittance. She had been too calm,
too even, too confident in herself for that. Yes;--he would come and
tell her plainly what he had to say. He would tell it with all the
solemnity of which he was capable, with a few words, and those the
strongest which he could use. Should she refuse him,--as he almost
knew that she would at first,--then he would tell her of her father
and of the wishes of all their joint friends. "Nothing," he would say
to her, "nothing but personal dislike can justify you in refusing
to heal so many wounds." As he fixed on these words he failed to
remember how little probable it is that a lover should ever be able
to use the phrases he arranges.
On Monday he came, and asked for Mrs. Lopez, slurring over the word
as best he could. The butler said his mistress was at home. Since the
death of the man he had so thoroughly despised, the old servant had
never called her Mrs. Lopez. Arthur was shown upstairs, and found the
lady he sought,--but he found Mrs. Roby also. It may be remembered
that Mrs. Roby, after the tragedy, had been refused admittance into
Mr. Wharton's house. Since that there had been some correspondence,
and a feeling had prevailed that the woman was not to be quarrelled
with for ever. "I did not do it, papa, because of her," Emily had
said with some scorn, and that scorn had procured Mrs. Roby's pardon.
She was now making a morning call, and suiting her conversation to
the black dress of her niece. Arthur was horrified at seeing her.
Mrs. Roby had always been to him odious, not only as a personal enemy
but as a vulgar woman. He, at any rate, attributed to her a great
part of the evil that had been done, feeling sure that had there been
no house round the corner, Emily Wharton would never have become Mrs.
Lopez. As it was he was forced to shake hands with her, and forced to
listen to the funereal tone in which Mrs. Roby asked him if he did
not think that Mrs. Lopez looked much improved by her sojourn in
Herefordshire. He shrank at the sound, and then, in order that it
might not be repeated, took occasion to show that he was allowed to
call his early playmate by her Christian name. Mrs. Roby, thinking
that she ought to check him, remarked that Mrs. Lopez's return was
a great thing for Mr. Wharton. Thereupon Arthur Fletcher seized his
hat off the ground, wished them both good-bye, and hurried out of
the room. "What a very odd manner he has taken up since he became a
member of Parliament," said Mrs. Roby.
Emily was silent for a moment, and then with an effort,--with intense
pain,--she said a word or two which she thought had better be at once
spoken. "He went because he does not like to hear that name."
"Good gracious!"
"And papa does not like it. Don't say a word about it, aunt; pray
don't;--but call me Emily."
"Are you going to be ashamed of your name?"
"Never mind, aunt. If you think it wrong you must stay away;--but I
will not have papa wounded."
"Oh;--if Mr. Wharton wishes it;--of course." That evening Mrs. Roby
told Dick Roby, her husband, what an old fool Mr. Wharton was.
The next day, quite early, Fletcher was again at the house and was
again admitted upstairs. The butler, no doubt, knew well enough why
he came, and also knew that the purport of his coming had at any rate
the sanction of Mr. Wharton. The room was empty when he was shown
into it, but she came to him very soon. "I went away yesterday rather
abruptly," he said. "I hope you did not think me rude."
"Oh no."
"Your aunt was here, and I had something I wished to say but could
not say very well before her."
"I knew that she had driven you away. You and Aunt Harriet were never
great friends."
"Never;--but I will forgive her everything. I will forgive all the
injuries that have been done me if you now will do as I ask you."
Of course she knew what it was that he was about to ask. When he had
left her at Longbarns without saying a word of his love, without
giving her any hint whereby she might allow herself to think that
he intended to renew his suit, then she had wept because it was so.
Though her resolution had been quite firm as to the duty which was
incumbent on her of remaining in her desolate condition of almost
nameless widowhood, yet she had been unable to refrain from bitter
tears because he also had seemed to see that such was her duty. But
now again, knowing that the request was coming, feeling once more
confident of the constancy of his love, she was urgent with herself
as to that heavy duty. She would be unwomanly, dead to all shame,
almost inhuman, were she to allow herself again to indulge in love
after all the havoc she had made. She had been little more than a
bride when that husband, for whom she had so often been forced to
blush, had been driven by the weight of his misfortunes and disgraces
to destroy himself! By the marriage she had made she had overwhelmed
her whole family with dishonour. She had done it with a persistency
of perverse self-will which she herself could not now look back upon
without wonder and horror. She, too, should have died as well as
he,--only that death had not been within the compass of her powers as
of his. How then could she forget it all, and wipe it away from her
mind, as she would figures from a slate with a wet towel? How could
it be fit that she should again be a bride with such a spectre of a
husband haunting her memory? She had known that the request was to be
made when he had come so quickly, and had not doubted it for a moment
when he took his sudden departure. She had known it well, when just
now the servant told her that Mr. Fletcher was in the drawing-room
below. But she was quite certain of the answer she must make. "I
should be sorry you should ask me anything I cannot do," she said in
a very low voice.
"I will ask you for nothing for which I have not your father's
sanction."
"The time has gone by, Arthur, in which I might well have been guided
by my father. There comes a time when personal feelings must be
stronger than a father's authority. Papa cannot see me with my own
eyes; he cannot understand what I feel. It is simply this,--that
he would have me to be other than I am. But I am what I have made
myself."
"You have not heard me as yet. You will hear me?"
"Oh, yes."
"I have loved you ever since I was a boy." He paused as though he
expected that she would make some answer to this; but of course there
was nothing that she could say. "I have been true to you since we
were together almost as children."
"It is your nature to be true."
"In this matter, at any rate, I shall never change. I never for
a moment had a doubt about my love. There never has been any one
else whom I have ventured to compare with you. Then came that great
trouble. Emily, you must let me speak freely this once, as so much,
to me at least, depends on it."
"Say what you will, Arthur. Do not wound me more than you can help."
"God knows how willingly I would heal every wound without a word
if it could be done. I don't know whether you ever thought what I
suffered when he came among us and robbed me,--well, I will not say
robbed me of your love, because it was not mine--but took away with
him that which I had been trying to win."
"I did not think a man would feel it like that."
"Why shouldn't a man feel as well as a woman? I had set my heart on
having you for my wife. Can any desire be dearer to a man than that?
Then he came. Well, dearest; surely I may say that he was not worthy
of you."
"We were neither of us worthy," she said.
"I need not tell you that we all grieved. It seemed to us down in
Herefordshire as though a black cloud had come upon us. We could not
speak of you, nor yet could we be altogether silent."
"Of course you condemned me,--as an outcast."
"Did I write to you as though you were an outcast? Did I treat you
when I saw you as an outcast? When I come to you to-day, is that
proof that I think you to be an outcast? I have never deceived you,
Emily."
"Never."
"Then you will believe me when I say that through it all not one word
of reproach or contumely has ever passed my lips in regard to you.
That you should have given yourself to one whom I could not think to
be worthy of you was, of course, a great sorrow. Had he been a prince
of men it would, of course, have been a sorrow to me. How it went
with you during your married life I will not ask."
"I was unhappy. I would tell you everything if I could. I was very
unhappy."
"Then came--the end." She was now weeping, with her face buried in
her handkerchief. "I would spare you if I knew how, but there are
some things which must be said."
"No;--no. I will bear it all--from you."
"Well! His success had not lessened my love. Though then I could have
no hope,--though you were utterly removed from me,--all that could
not change me. There it was,--as though my arm or my leg had been
taken from me. It was bad to live without an arm or leg, but there
was no help. I went on with my life and tried not to look like a
whipped cur;--though John from time to time would tell me that I
failed. But now;--now that it has again all changed,--what would you
have me do now? It may be that after all my limb may be restored
to me, that I may be again as other men are, whole, and sound, and
happy;--so happy! When it may possibly be within my reach am I not to
look for my happiness?" He paused, but she wept on without speaking a
word. "There are those who will say that I should wait till all these
signs of woe have been laid aside. But why should I wait? There has
come a great blot upon your life, and is it not well that it should
be covered as quickly as possible?"
"It can never be covered."
"You mean that it can never be forgotten. No doubt there are
passages in our life which we cannot forget, though we bury them
in the deepest silence. All this can never be driven out of your
memory,--nor from mine. But it need not therefore blacken all our
lives. In such a condition we should not be ruled by what the world
thinks."
"Not at all. I care nothing for what the world thinks. I am below all
that. It is what I think: I myself,--of myself."
"Will you think of no one else? Are any of your thoughts for me,--or
for your father?"
"Oh, yes;--for my father."
"I need hardly tell you what he wishes. You must know how you can
best give him back the comfort he has lost."
"But, Arthur, even for him I cannot do everything."
"There is one question to be asked," he said, rising from her feet
and standing before her;--"but one; and what you do should depend
entirely on the answer which you may be able truly to make to that."
This he said so solemnly that he startled her.
"What question, Arthur?"
"Do you love me?" To this question at the moment she could make no
reply. "Of course I know that you did not love me when you married
him."
"Love is not all of one kind."
"You know what love I mean. You did not love me then. You could
not have loved me,--though, perhaps, I thought I had deserved your
love. But love will change, and memory will sometimes bring back old
fancies when the world has been stern and hard. When we were very
young I think you loved me. Do you remember seven years ago at
Longbarns, when they parted us and sent me away, because--because we
were so young? They did not tell us then, but I think you knew. I
know that I knew, and went nigh to swear that I would drown myself.
You loved me then, Emily."
"I was a child then."
"Now you are not a child. Do you love me now,--to-day? If so, give me
your hand, and let the past be buried in silence. All this has come,
and gone, and has nearly made us old. But there is life before us
yet, and if you are to me as I am to you it is better that our lives
should be lived together." Then he stood before her with his hand
stretched out.
"I cannot do it," she said.
"And why?"
"I cannot be other than the wretched thing I have made myself."
"But do you love me?"
"I cannot analyse my heart. Love you;--yes! I have always loved you.
Everything about you is dear to me. I can triumph in your triumphs,
rejoice at your joy, weep at your sorrows, be ever anxious that all
good things may come to you;--but, Arthur, I cannot be your wife."
"Not though it would make us happy,--Fletchers and Whartons all
alike?"
"Do you think I have not thought it over? Do you think that I have
forgotten your first letter? Knowing your heart, as I do know it,
do you imagine that I have spent a day, an hour, for months past,
without asking myself what answer I should make to you if the sweet
constancy of your nature should bring you again to me? I have
trembled when I have heard your voice. My heart has beat at the sound
of your footstep as though it would burst! Do you think I have never
told myself what I had thrown away? But it is gone, and it is not now
within my reach."
"It is; it is," he said, throwing himself on his knees, and twining
his arms round her.
"No;--no;--no;--never. I am disgraced and shamed. I have lain among
the pots till I am foul and blackened. Take your arms away. They
shall not be defiled," she said as she sprang to her feet. "You shall
not have the thing that he has left."
"Emily,--it is the only thing in the world that I crave."
"Be a man and conquer your love,--as I will. Get it under your feet
and press it to death. Tell yourself that it is shameful and must be
abandoned. That you, Arthur Fletcher, should marry the widow of that
man,--the woman that he had thrust so far into the mire that she can
never again be clean;--you, the chosen one, the bright star among
us all;--you, whose wife should be the fairest, the purest, the
tenderest of us all, a flower that has yet been hardly breathed on!
While I-- Arthur," she said, "I know my duty better than that. I will
not seek an escape from my punishment in that way,--nor will I allow
you to destroy yourself. You have my word as a woman that it shall
not be so. Now I do not mind your knowing whether I love you or no."
He stood silent before her, not able for the moment to go on with his
prayer. "And now, go," she said. "God bless you, and give you some
day a fair and happy wife. And, Arthur, do not come again to me. If
you will let it be so, I shall have a delight in seeing you;--but not
if you come as you have come now. And, Arthur, spare me with papa. Do
not let him think that it is all my fault that I cannot do the thing
which he wishes." Then she left the room before he could say another
word to her.
But it was all her fault. No;--in that direction he could not spare
her. It must be told to her father, though he doubted his own power
of describing all that had been said. "Do not come again to me," she
had said. At the moment he had been left speechless; but if there was
one thing fixed in his mind, it was the determination to come again.
He was sure now, not only of love that might have sufficed,--but
of hot, passionate love. She had told him that her heart had beat
at his footsteps, and that she had trembled as she listened to his
voice;--and yet she expected that he would not come again! But there
was a violence of decision about the woman which made him dread that
he might still come in vain. She was so warped from herself by the
conviction of her great mistake, so prone to take shame to herself
for her own error, so keenly alive to the degradation to which she
had been submitted, that it might yet be impossible to teach her
that, though her husband had been vile and she mistaken, yet she had
not been soiled by his baseness.
He went at once to the old barrister's chambers and told him the
result of the meeting. "She is still a fool," said the father, not
understanding at second-hand the depths of his daughter's feeling.
"No, sir,--not that. She feels herself degraded by his degradation.
If it be possible we must save her from that."
"She did degrade herself."
"Not as she means it. She is not degraded in my eyes."
"Why should she not take the only means in her power of rescuing
herself and rescuing us all from the evil that she did? She owes it
to you, to me, and to her brother."
"I would hardly wish her to come to me in payment of such a debt."
"There is no room left," said Mr. Wharton angrily, "for soft
sentimentality. Well;--she must take her bed as she makes it. It
is very hard on me, I know. Considering what she used to be, it is
marvellous to me that she should have so little idea left of doing
her duty to others."
Arthur Fletcher found that the barrister was at the moment too angry
to hear reason, or to be made to understand anything of the feelings
of mixed love and admiration with which he himself was animated at
the moment. He was obliged therefore to content himself with assuring
the father that he did not intend to give up the pursuit of his
daughter.