The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “Why, — why, — why did you not take him?” said Mary, moved by the excitement of the moment to suggestions which were quite at variance with the fixed propriety of her general ideas.

  “Why should you speak of that?” said the other. “I never speak of him, — never think of him. But, if you see him, tell him what I say.” Arthur Fletcher was of course in the Square on the following day, — on that very day on which Mr. Wharton learned that, whatever might be his daughter’s fate, she would not, at any rate, be taken to Guatemala. They two had never met since the day on which they had been brought together for a moment at the Duchess’s party at Richmond. It had of course been understood by both of them that they were not to be allowed to see each other. Her husband had made a pretext of an act of friendship on his part to establish a quarrel, and both of them had been bound by that quarrel. When a husband declares that his wife shall not know a man, that edict must be obeyed, — or, if disobeyed, must be subverted by intrigue. In this case there had been no inclination to intrigue on either side. The order had been obeyed, and as far as the wife was concerned, had been only a small part of the terrible punishment which had come upon her as the result of her marriage. But now, when Arthur Fletcher sent up his name, she did not hesitate as to seeing him. No doubt she had thought it probable that she might see him when she gave her message to her cousin.

  “I could not let you go without coming to you,” he said.

  “It is very good of you. Yes; — I suppose we are going. Guatemala sounds a long way off, Arthur, does it not? But they tell me it is a beautiful country.” She spoke with a cheerful voice, almost as though she liked the idea of her journey; but he looked at her with beseeching, anxious, sorrow-laden eyes. “After all, what is a journey of a few weeks? Why should I not be as happy in Guatemala as in London? As to friends, I do not know that it will make much difference, — except papa.”

  “It seems to me to make a difference,” said he.

  “I never see anybody now, — neither your people, nor the Wharton Whartons. Indeed, I see nobody. If it were not for papa I should be glad to go. I am told that it is a charming country. I have not found Manchester Square very charming. I am inclined to think that all the world is very much alike, and that it does not matter very much where one lives, — or, perhaps, what one does. But at any rate I am going, and I am very glad to be able to say good-bye to you before I start.” All this she said rapidly, in a manner unlike herself. She was forcing herself to speak so that she might save herself, if possible, from breaking down in his presence.

  “Of course I came when Mary told me.”

  “Yes; — she was here. Sir Alured did not come. I don’t wonder at that, however. And your mother was in town some time ago, — but I didn’t expect her to come. Why should they come? I don’t know whether you might not have better stayed away. Of course I am a Pariah now; but Pariah as I am, I shall be as good as any one else in Guatemala. You have seen Everett since he has been in town, perhaps?”

  “Yes; — I have seen him.”

  “I hope they won’t quarrel with Everett because of what I have done. I have felt that more than all, — that both papa and he have suffered because of it. Do you know, I think people are hard. They might have thrown me off without being unkind to them. It is that that has killed me, Arthur; — that they should have suffered.” He sat looking at her, not knowing how to interrupt her, or what to say. There was much that he meant to say, but he did not know how to begin it, or how to frame his words. “When I am gone, perhaps, it will be all right,” she continued. “When he told me that I was to go, that was my comfort. I think I have taught myself to think nothing of myself, to bear it all as a necessity, to put up with it, whatever it may be, as men bear thirst in the desert. Thank God, Arthur, I have no baby to suffer with me. Here, — here, it is still very bad. When I think of papa creeping in and out of his house, I sometimes feel that I must kill myself. But our going will put an end to all that. It is much better that we should go. I wish we might start to-morrow.” Then she looked up at him, and saw that the tears were running down his face, and as she looked she heard his sobs. “Why should you cry, Arthur? He never cries, — nor do I. When baby died I cried, — but very little. Tears are vain, foolish things. It has to be borne, and there is an end of it. When one makes up one’s mind to that, one does not cry. There was a poor woman here the other day whose husband he had ruined. She wept and bewailed herself till I pitied her almost more than myself; — but then she had children.”

  “Oh, Emily!”

  “You mustn’t call me by my name, because he would be angry. I have to do, you know, as he tells me. And I do so strive to do it! Through it all I have an idea that if I do my duty it will be better for me. There are things, you know, which a husband may tell you to do, but you cannot do. If he tells me to rob, I am not to rob; — am I? And now I think of it, you ought not to be here. He would be very much displeased. But it has been so pleasant once more to see an old friend.”

  “I care nothing for his anger,” said Arthur moodily.

  “Ah, but I do. I have to care for it.”

  “Leave him! Why don’t you leave him?”

  “What!”

  “You cannot deceive me. You do not try to deceive me. You know that he is altogether unworthy of you.”

  “I will hear nothing of the kind, sir.”

  “How can I speak otherwise when you yourself tell me of your own misery? Is it possible that I should not know what he is? Would you have me pretend to think well of him?”

  “You can hold your tongue, Arthur.”

  “No; — I cannot hold my tongue. Have I not held my tongue ever since you married? And if I am to speak at all, must I not speak now?”

  “There is nothing to be said that can serve us at all.”

  “Then it shall be said without serving. When I bid you leave him, it is not that you may come to me. Though I love you better than all the world put together, I do not mean that.”

  “Oh, Arthur, Arthur!”

  “But let your father save you. Only tell him that you will stay with him, and he will do it. Though I should never see you again, I could hope to protect you. Of course, I know, — and you know. He is — a scoundrel!”

  “I will not hear it,” said she, rising from her seat on the sofa with her hands up to her forehead, but still coming nearer to him as she moved.

  “Does not your father say the same thing? I will advise nothing that he does not advise. I would not say a word to you that he might not hear. I do love you. I have always loved you. But do you think that I would hurt you with my love?”

  “No; — no; — no!”

  “No, indeed; — but I would have you feel that those who loved you of old are still anxious for your welfare. You said just now that you had been neglected.”

  “I spoke of papa and Everett. For myself, — of course I have separated myself from everybody.”

  “Never from me. You may be ten times his wife, but you cannot separate yourself from me. Getting up in the morning and going to bed at night I still tell myself that you are the one woman that I love. Stay with us, and you shall be honoured, — as that man’s wife of course, but still as the dearest friend we have.”

  “I cannot stay,” she said. “He has told me that I am to go, and I am in his hands. When you have a wife, Arthur, you will wish her to do your bidding. I hope she will do it for your sake, without the pain I have in doing his. Good-bye, dear friend.”

  She put her hand out and he grasped it, and stood for a moment looking at her. Then he seized her in his arms and kissed her brow and her lips. “Oh, Emily, why were you not my wife? My darling, my darling!”

  She had hardly extricated herself when the door opened, and Lopez stood in the room. “Mr. Fletcher,” he said, very calmly, “what is the meaning of this?”

  “He has come to bid me farewell,” said Emily. “When going on so long a journey one likes to see one’s old friends, — perhaps for the last ti
me.” There was something of indifference to his anger in her tone, and something also of scorn.

  Lopez looked from one to the other, affecting an air of great displeasure. “You know, sir,” he said, “that you cannot be welcome here.”

  “But he has been welcome,” said his wife.

  “And I look upon your coming as a base act. You are here with the intention of creating discord between me and my wife.”

  “I am here to tell her that she has a friend to trust to if she ever wants a friend,” said Fletcher.

  “And you think that such trust as that would be safer than trust in her husband? I cannot turn you out of this house, sir, because it does not belong to me, but I desire you to leave at once the room which is occupied by my wife.” Fletcher paused a moment to say good-bye to the poor woman, while Lopez continued with increased indignation, “If you do not go at once you will force me to desire her to retire. She shall not remain in the same room with you.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Fletcher,” she said, again putting out her hand.

  But Lopez struck it up, not violently, so as to hurt her, but still with eager roughness. “Not in my presence,” he said. “Go, sir, when I desire you.”

  “God bless you, my friend,” said Arthur Fletcher. “I pray that I may live to see you back in the old country.”

  “He was — kissing you,” said Lopez, as soon as the door was shut.

  “He was,” said Emily.

  “And you tell me so to my face, with such an air as that!”

  “What am I to tell you when you ask me? I did not bid him kiss me.”

  “But afterwards you took his part as his friend.”

  “Why not? I should lie to you if I pretended that I was angry with him for what he did.”

  “Perhaps you will tell me that you love him.”

  “Of course I love him. There are different kinds of love, Ferdinand. There is that which a woman gives to a man when she would fain mate with him. It is the sweetest love of all, if it would only last. And there is another love, — which is not given, but which is won, perhaps through long years, by old friends. I have none older than Arthur Fletcher, and none who are dearer to me.”

  “And you think it right that he should take you in his arms and kiss you?”

  “On such an occasion I could not blame him.”

  “You were ready enough to receive it, perhaps.”

  “Well; I was. He has loved me well, and I shall never see him again. He is very dear to me, and I was parting from him for ever. It was the first and the last, and I did not grudge it to him. You must remember, Ferdinand, that you are taking me across the world from all my friends.”

  “Psha,” he said, “that is all over. You are not going anywhere that I know of, — unless it be out into the streets when your father shuts his door on you.” And so saying he left the room without another word.

  CHAPTER LX

  The Tenway Junction

  And thus the knowledge was conveyed to Mrs. Lopez that her fate in life was not to carry her to Guatemala. At the very moment in which she had been summoned to meet Arthur Fletcher she had been busy with her needle preparing that almost endless collection of garments necessary for a journey of many days at sea. And now she was informed, by a chance expression, by a word aside, as it were, that the journey was not to be made. “That is all over,” he had said, — and then had left her, telling her nothing further. Of course she stayed her needle. Whether the last word had been true or false, she could not work again, at any rate till it had been contradicted. If it were so, what was to be her fate? One thing was certain to her; — that she could not remain under her father’s roof. It was impossible that an arrangement so utterly distasteful as the present one, both to her father and to herself, should be continued. But where then should they live, — and of what nature would her life be if she should be separated from her father?

  That evening she saw her father, and he corroborated her husband’s statement. “It is all over now,” he said, — “that scheme of his of going to superintend the mines. The mines don’t want him, and won’t have him. I can’t say that I wonder at it.”

  “What are we to do, papa?”

  “Ah; — that I cannot say. I suppose he will condescend still to honour me with his company. I do not know why he should wish to go to Guatemala or elsewhere. He has everything here that he can want.”

  “You know, papa, that that is impossible.”

  “I cannot say what with him is possible or impossible. He is bound by none of the ordinary rules of mankind.”

  That evening Lopez returned to his dinner in Manchester Square, which was still regularly served for him and his wife, though the servants who attended upon him did so under silent and oft-repeated protest. He said not a word more as to Arthur Fletcher, nor did he seek any ground of quarrel with his wife. But that her continued melancholy and dejection made anything like good-humour impossible, even on his part, he would have been good-humoured. When they were alone she asked him as to their future destiny. “Papa tells me you are not going,” she began by saying.

  “Did I not tell you so this morning?”

  “Yes; — you said so. But I did not know you were earnest. Is it all over?”

  “All over, — I suppose.”

  “I should have thought that you would have told me with more — more seriousness.”

  “I don’t know what you would have. I was serious enough. The fact is, that your father has delayed so long the payment of the promised money that the thing has fallen through of necessity. I do not know that I can blame the Company.”

  Then there was a pause. “And now,” she said, “what do you mean to do?”

  “Upon my word I cannot say. I am quite as much in the dark as you can be.”

  “That is nonsense, Ferdinand.”

  “Thank you! Let it be nonsense if you will. It seems to me that there is a great deal of nonsense going on in the world; but very little of it as true as what I say now.”

  “But it is your duty to know. Of course you cannot stay here.”

  “Nor you, I suppose, — without me.”

  “I am not speaking of myself. If you choose, I can remain here.”

  “And — just throw me overboard altogether.”

  “If you provide another home for me, I will go to it. However poor it may be I will go to it, if you bid me. But for you, — of course you cannot stay here.”

  “Has your father told you to say so to me?”

  “No; — but I can say so without his telling me. You are banishing him from his own house. He has put up with it while he thought that you were going to this foreign country; but there must be an end of that now. You must have some scheme of life?”

  “Upon my soul I have none.”

  “You must have some intentions for the future?”

  “None in the least. I have had intentions, and they have failed; — from want of that support which I had a right to expect. I have struggled and I have failed, and now I have got no intentions. What are yours?”

  “It is not my duty to have any purpose, as what I do must depend on your commands.” Then again there was a silence, during which he lit a cigar, although he was sitting in the drawing-room. This was a profanation of the room on which even he had never ventured before, but at the present moment she was unable to notice it by any words. “I must tell papa,” she said after a while, “what our plans are.”

  “You can tell him what you please. I have literally nothing to say to him. If he will settle an adequate income on us, payable of course to me, I will go and live elsewhere. If he turns me into the street without provision, he must turn you too. That is all that I have got to say. It will come better from you than from me. I am sorry, of course, that things have gone wrong with me. When I found myself the son-in-law of a very rich man I thought that I might spread my wings a bit. But my rich father-in-law threw me over, and now I am helpless. You are not very cheerful, my dear, and I think I’ll go down t
o the club.”

  He went out of the house and did go down to the Progress. The committee which was to be held with the view of judging whether he was or was not a proper person to remain a member of that assemblage had not yet been held, and there was nothing to impede his entrance to the club, or the execution of the command which he gave for tea and buttered toast. But no one spoke to him; nor, though he affected a look of comfort, did he find himself much at his ease. Among the members of the club there was a much divided opinion whether he should be expelled or not. There was a strong party who declared that his conduct socially, morally, and politically, had been so bad that nothing short of expulsion would meet the case. But there were others who said that no act had been proved against him which the club ought to notice. He had, no doubt, shown himself to be a blackguard, a man without a spark of honour or honesty. But then, — as they said who thought his position in the club to be unassailable, — what had the club to do with that? “If you turn out all the blackguards and all the dishonourable men, where will the club be?” was a question asked with a great deal of vigour by one middle-aged gentleman who was supposed to know the club-world very thoroughly. He had committed no offence which the law could recognise and punish, nor had he sinned against the club rules. “He is not required to be a man of honour by any regulation of which I am aware,” said the middle-aged gentleman. The general opinion seemed to be that he should be asked to go, and that, if he declined, no one should speak to him. This penalty was already inflicted on him, for on the evening in question no one did speak to him.

  He drank his tea and ate his toast and read a magazine, striving to look as comfortable and as much at his ease as men at their clubs generally are. He was not a bad actor, and those who saw him and made reports as to his conduct on the following day declared that he had apparently been quite indifferent to the disagreeable incidents of his position. But his indifference had been mere acting. His careless manner with his wife had been all assumed. Selfish as he was, void as he was of all principle, utterly unmanly and even unconscious of the worth of manliness, still he was alive to the opinions of others. He thought that the world was wrong to condemn him, — that the world did not understand the facts of his case, and that the world generally would have done as he had done in similar circumstances. He did not know that there was such a quality as honesty, nor did he understand what the word meant. But he did know that some men, an unfortunate class, became subject to evil report from others who were more successful, and he was aware that he had become one of those unfortunates. Nor could he see any remedy for his position. It was all blank and black before him. It may be doubted whether he got much instruction or amusement from the pages of the magazine which he turned.