The Palliser Novels (461 page)

Emily at that moment came to no decision, but on the following day she discussed the matter with Lopez himself. “Of course you will go with me,” he said, when she asked the question.

“You mean that I must, whether I wish to go or not.”

“Certainly you must. Good G––––! where is a wife’s place? Am I to go out without my child, and without you, while you are enjoying all the comforts of your father’s wealth at home? That is not my idea of life.”

“Ferdinand, I have been thinking about it very much. I must beg you to allow me to remain. I ask it of you as if I were asking my life.”

“Your father has put you up to this.”

“No; — not to this.”

“To what then?”

“My father thinks that I should refuse to go.”

“He does, does he?”

“But I shall not refuse. I shall go if you insist upon it. There shall be no contest between us about that.”

“Well; I should hope not.”

“But I do implore you to spare me.”

“That is very selfish, Emily.”

“Yes,” — she said, “yes. I cannot contradict that. But so is the man selfish who prays the judge to spare his life.”

“But you do not think of me. I must go.”

“I shall not make you happier, Ferdinand.”

“Do you think that it is a fine thing for a man to live in such a country as that all alone?”

“I think he would be better so than with a wife he does not — love.”

“Who says I do not love you?”

“Or with one who does — not — love him.” This she said very slowly, very softly, but looking up into his eyes as she said it.

“Do you tell me that to my face?”

“Yes; — what good can I do now by lying? You have not been to me as I thought you would be.”

“And so, because you have built up some castle in the air that has fallen to pieces, you tell your husband to his face that you do not love him, and that you prefer not to live with him. Is that your idea of duty?”

“Why have you been so cruel?”

“Cruel! What have I done? Tell me what cruelty. Have I beat you? Have you been starved? Have I not asked and implored your assistance, — only to be refused? The fact is that your father and you have found out that I am not a rich man, and you want to be rid of me. Is that true or false?”

“It is not true that I want to be rid of you because you are poor.”

“I do not mean to be rid of you. You will have to settle down and do your work as my wife in whatever place it may suit me to live. Your father is a rich man, but you shall not have the advantage of his wealth unless it comes to you, as it ought to come, through my hands. If your father would give me the fortune which ought to be yours there need be no going abroad. He cannot bear to part with his money, and therefore we must go. Now you know all about it.” She was then turning to leave him, when he asked her a direct question. “Am I to understand that you intend to resist my right to take you with me?”

“If you bid me go, — I shall go.”

“It will be better, as you will save both trouble and exposure.”

Of course she told her father what had taken place, but he could only shake his head, and sit groaning over his misery in his chambers. He had explained to her what he was willing to do on her behalf, but she declined his aid. He could not tell her that she was wrong. She was the man’s wife, and out of that terrible destiny she could not now escape. The only question with him was whether it would not be best to buy the man, — give him a sum of money to go, and to go alone. Could he have been quit of the man even for £20,000, he would willingly have paid the money. But the man would either not go, or would come back as soon as he had got the money. His own life, as he passed it now, with this man in the house with him, was horrible to him. For Lopez, though he had more than once threatened that he would carry his wife to another home, had taken no steps towards getting that other home ready for her.

During all this time Mr. Wharton had not seen his son. Everett had gone abroad just as his father returned to London from Brighton, and was still on the continent. He received his allowance punctually, and that was the only intercourse which took place between them. But Emily had written to him, not telling him much of her troubles, — only saying that she believed that her husband would take her to Central America early in the spring, and begging him to come home before she went.

Just before Christmas her baby was born, but the poor child did not live a couple of days. She herself at the time was so worn with care, so thin and wan and wretched, that looking in the glass she hardly knew her own face. “Ferdinand,” she said to him, “I know he will not live. The Doctor says so.”

“Nothing thrives that I have to do with,” he answered gloomily.

“Will you not look at him?”

“Well; yes. I have looked at him, have I not? I wish to God that where he is going I could go with him.”

“I wish I was; — I wish I was going,” said the poor mother. Then the father went out, and before he had returned to the house the child was dead. “Oh, Ferdinand, speak one kind word to me now,” she said.

“What kind word can I speak when you have told me that you do not love me? Do you think that I can forget that because — because he has gone?”

“A woman’s love may always be won back again by kindness.”

“Psha! How am I to kiss and make pretty speeches with my mind harassed as it is now?” But he did touch her brow with his lips before he went away.

The infant was buried, and then there was not much show of mourning in the house. The poor mother would sit gloomily alone day after day, telling herself that it was perhaps better that she should have been robbed of her treasure than have gone forth with him into the wide, unknown, harsh world with such a father as she had given him. Then she would look at all the preparations she had made, — the happy work of her fingers when her thoughts of their future use were her sweetest consolation, — and weep till she would herself feel that there never could be an end to her tears.

The second week in January had come and yet nothing further had been settled as to this Guatemala project. Lopez talked about it as though it was certain, and even told his wife that as they would move so soon it would not be now worth while for him to take other lodgings for her. But when she asked as to her own preparations, — the wardrobe necessary for the long voyage and her general outfit, — he told her that three weeks or a fortnight would be enough for all, and that he would give her sufficient notice. “Upon my word he is very kind to honour my poor house as he does,” said Mr. Wharton.

“Papa, we will go at once if you wish it,” said his daughter.

“Nay, Emily; do not turn upon me. I cannot but be sensible to the insult of his daily presence; but even that is better than losing you.”

Then there occurred a ludicrous incident, — or combination of incidents, — which, in spite of their absurdity, drove Mr. Wharton almost frantic. First there came to him the bill from Messrs. Stewam and Sugarscraps for the dinner. At this time he kept nothing back from his daughter. “Look at that!” he said. The bill was absolutely made out in his name.

“It is a mistake, papa.”

“Not at all. The dinner was given in my house, and I must pay for it. I would sooner do so than that he should pay it, — even if he had the means.” So he paid Messrs. Stewam and Sugarscraps £25 9s. 6d., begging them as he did so never to send another dinner into his house, and observing that he was in the habit of entertaining his friends at less than three guineas a head. “But Château Yquem and Côte d’Or!” said Mr. Sugarscraps. “Château fiddlesticks!” said Mr. Wharton, walking out of the house with his receipt.

Then came the bill for the brougham, — for the brougham from the very day of their return to town after their wedding trip. This he showed to Lopez. Indeed the bill had been made out to Lopez and sent to Mr. Wharton with an apologetic note. “I didn’t tell him to send it,” said Lopez.

“But will you pay it?”

“I certainly shall not ask you to pay it.” But Mr. Wharton at last did pay it, and he also paid the rent of the rooms in the Belgrave Mansions, and between £30 and £40 for dresses which Emily had got at Lewes and Allenby’s under her husband’s orders in the first days of their married life in London.

“Oh, papa, I wish I had not gone there,” she said.

“My dear, anything that you may have had I do not grudge in the least. And even for him, if he would let you remain here, I would pay willingly. I would supply all his wants if he would only — go away.”

“Do you mean to say, my lady, that the Duke paid his electioneering bill down at Silverbridge?”

“I do mean to say so, Mr. Slide.” Lady Eustace nodded her head, and Mr. Quintus Slide opened his mouth.

“Goodness gracious!” said Mrs. Leslie, who was sitting with them. They were in Lady Eustace’s drawing-room, and the patriotic editor of the “People’s Banner” was obtaining from a new ally information which might be useful to the country.

“But ‘ow do you know, Lady Eustace? You’ll pardon the persistency of my inquiries, but when you come to public information accuracy is everything. I never trust myself to mere report. I always travel up to the very fountain ‘ead of truth.”

“I know it,” said Lizzy Eustace oracularly.

“Um — m!” The Editor as he ejaculated the sound looked at her ladyship with admiring eyes, — with eyes that were intended to flatter. But Lizzie had been looked at so often in so many ways, and was so well accustomed to admiration, that this had no effect on her at all. “‘E didn’t tell you himself; did ‘e, now?”

“Can you tell me the truth as to trusting him with my money?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Shall I be safe if I take the papers which he calls bills of sale?”

“One good turn deserves another, my lady.”

“I don’t want to make a secret of it, Mr. Slide. Pountney found it out. You know the Major?”

“Yes, I know Major Pountney. He was at Gatherum ‘imself, and got a little bit of cold shoulder; — didn’t he?”

“I dare say he did. What has that to do with it? You may be sure that Lopez applied to the Duke for his expenses at Silverbridge, and that the Duke sent him the money.”

“There’s no doubt about it, Mr. Slide,” said Mrs. Leslie. “We got it all from Major Pountney. There was some bet between him and Pountney, and he had to show Pountney the cheque.”

“Pountney saw the money,” said Lady Eustace.

Mr. Slide stroked his hand over his mouth and chin as he sat thinking of the tremendous national importance of this communication. The man who had paid the money was the Prime Minister of England, — and was, moreover, Mr. Slide’s enemy! “When the right ‘and of fellowship has been rejected, I never forgive,” Mr. Slide has been heard to say. Even Lady Eustace, who was not particular as to the appearance of people, remarked afterwards to her friend that Mr. Slide had looked like the devil as he was stroking his face. “It’s very remarkable,” said Mr. Slide; “very remarkable!”

“You won’t tell the Major that we told you,” said her Ladyship.

“Oh dear, no. I only just wanted to ‘ear how it was. And as to embarking your money, my lady, with Ferdinand Lopez, — I wouldn’t do it.”

“Not if I get the bills of sale? It’s for rum, and they say rum will go up to any price.”

“Don’t, Lady Eustace. I can’t say any more, — but don’t. I never mention names. But don’t.”

Then Mr. Slide went at once in search of Major Pountney, and having found the Major at his club extracted from him all that he knew about the Silverbridge payment. Pountney had really seen the Duke’s cheque for £500. “There was some bet, — eh, Major?” asked Mr. Slide.

“No, there wasn’t. I know who has been telling you. That’s Lizzie Eustace, and just like her mischief. The way of it was this; — Lopez, who was very angry, had boasted that he would bring the Duke down on his marrow-bones. I was laughing at him as we sat at dinner one day afterwards, and he took out the cheque and showed it me. There was the Duke’s own signature for £500, — ‘Omnium,’ as plain as letters could make it.” Armed with this full information, Mr. Slide felt that he had done all that the most punctilious devotion to accuracy could demand of him, and immediately shut himself up in his cage at the “People’s Banner” office and went to work.

This occurred about the first week in January. The Duke was then at Matching with his wife and a very small party. The singular arrangement which had been effected by the Duchess in the early autumn had passed off without any wonderful effects. It had been done by her in pique, and the result had been apparently so absurd that it had at first frightened her. But in the end it answered very well. The Duke took great pleasure in Lady Rosina’s company, and enjoyed the comparative solitude which enabled him to work all day without interruption. His wife protested that it was just what she liked, though it must be feared that she soon became weary of it. To Lady Rosina it was of course a Paradise on earth. In September, Phineas Finn and his wife came to them, and in October there were other relaxations and other business. The Prime Minister and his wife visited their Sovereign, and he made some very useful speeches through the country on his old favourite subject of decimal coinage. At Christmas, for a fortnight, they went to Gatherum Castle and entertained the neighbourhood, — the nobility and squirearchy dining there on one day, and the tenants and other farmers on another. All this went very smoothly, and the Duke did not become outrageously unhappy because the “People’s Banner” made sundry severe remarks on the absence of Cabinet Councils through the autumn.

After Christmas they returned to Matching, and had some of their old friends with them. There was the Duke of St. Bungay and the Duchess, and Phineas Finn and his wife, and Lord and Lady Cantrip, Barrington Erle, and one or two others. But at this period there came a great trouble. One morning as the Duke sat in his own room after breakfast he read an article in the “People’s Banner,” of which the following sentences were a part. “We wish to know by whom were paid the expenses incurred by Mr. Ferdinand Lopez during the late contest at Silverbridge. It may be that they were paid by that gentleman himself, — in which case we shall have nothing further to say, not caring at the present moment to inquire whether those expenses were or were not excessive. It may be that they were paid by subscription among his political friends, — and if so, again we shall be satisfied. Or it is possible that funds were supplied by a new political club of which we have lately heard much, and with the action of such a body we of course have nothing to do. If an assurance can be given to us by Mr. Lopez or his friends that such was the case we shall be satisfied.