‘He shouldn’t have had the people.’
‘Well; – granted. But it does not signify much. Is your Aunt Harriet there?’
‘Yes.’
‘It can’t be very bad, then.’
‘Mrs Leslie is there, and Lady Eustace, – and two men I don’t like.’
‘Is Everett here?’
‘No; – he wouldn’t have Everett.’
‘Oughtn’t you to go to them?’
‘Don’t make me go. I should only cry. I have been crying all day, and the whole of yesterday.’ Then she buried her face upon his knees, and sobbed as though she would break her heart.
He couldn’t at all understand it. Though he distrusted his son-in-law, and certainly did not love him, he had not as yet learned to hold him in aversion. When the connection was once made he had determined to make the best of it, and had declared to himself that as far as manners went the man was well enough. He had not as yet seen the inside of the man, as it had been the sad fate of the poor wife to see him. It had never occurred to him that his daughter’s love had failed her, or that she could already be repenting what she had done. And now, when she was weeping at his feet and deploring the sin of the dinner party, – which, after all, was a trifling sin, – he could not comprehend the feelings which were actuating her. ‘I suppose your Aunt Harriet made up the party,’ he said.
‘He did it’
‘Your husband?’
‘Yes; – he did it. He wrote to the women in my name when I refused.’ Then Mr Wharton began to perceive that there had been a quarrel. ‘I told him Mrs Leslie oughtn’t to come here.’
‘I don’t love Mrs Leslie, – nor, for the matter of that, Lady Eustace. But they won’t hurt the house, my dear.’
‘And he has had the dinner sent in from a shop.’
‘Why couldn’t he let Mrs Williams do it?’ As he said this, the tone of his voice became for the first time angry.
‘Cook has gone away. She wouldn’t stand it. And Mrs Williams is very angry. And Barker wouldn’t wait at table.’
‘What’s the meaning of it all?’
‘He would have it so. Oh, papa, you don’t know what I’ve undergone. I wish, – I wish we had not come here. It would have been better anywhere else.’
‘What would have been better, dear?’
‘Everything. Whether we lived or died, it would have been better. Why should I bring my misery to you? Oh, papa, you do not know, – you can never know.’
‘But I must know. Is there more than this dinner to disturb you?’
‘Oh, yes; – more than that Only I couldn’t bear that it should be done in your house.’
‘Has he – ill-treated you?’
Then she got up, and stood before him. ‘I do not mean to complain. I should have said nothing only that you have found us in this way. For myself I will bear it all, whatever it may be. But, papa, I want you to tell him that we must leave this house.’
‘He has got no other home for you.’
‘He must find one. I will go anywhere. I don’t care where it is. But I won’t stay here. I have done it myself, but I won’t bring it upon you. I could bear it all if I thought that you would never see me again.’
‘Emily!’
‘Yes; – if you would never see me again. I know it all, and that would be best.’ She was now walking about the room. ‘Why should you see it all?’
‘See what, my love?’
‘See his ruin, and my unhappiness, and my baby. Oh, – oh, – oh!’
‘I think so very differently, Emily, that under no circumstances will I have you taken to another home. I cannot understand much of all this as yet, but I suppose I shall come to see it. If Lopez be, as you say, ruined, it is well that I have still enough for us to live on. This is a bad time just now to talk about your husband’s affairs.’
‘I did not mean to talk about them, papa.’
‘What would you like best to do now, – now at once. Can you go down again to your husband’s friends?’
‘No; – no; – no.’
‘As for the dinner, never mind about that. I can’t blame him for making use of my house in my absence as far as that goes, – though I wish he could have contented himself with such a dinner as my servants could have prepared for him. I will have some tea here.’
‘Let me stay with you, papa, and make it for you.’
‘Very well, dear. I do not mean to be ashamed to enter my own dining-room. I shall, therefore, go in and make your apologies.’ Thereupon Mr Wharton walked slowly forth and marched into the dining-room.
‘Oh, Mr Wharton,’ said Mrs Dick, ‘we didn’t expect you.’
‘Have you dined yet, sir?’ asked Lopez.
‘I dined early,’ said Mr Wharton. ‘I should not now have come in to disturb you, but that I have found Mrs Lopez unwell, and she has begged me to ask you to excuse her.’
‘I will go to her,’ said Lopez, rising.
‘It is not necessary,’ said Wharton. ‘She is not ill, but hardly able to take her place at table.’ Then Mrs Dick proposed to go to her dear niece; but Mr Wharton would not allow it, and left the room, having succeeded in persuading them to go on with their dinner. Lopez certainly was not happy during the evening, but he was strong enough to hide his misgivings, and to do his duty as host with seeming cheerfulness.
CHAPTER 49
Where is Guatemala?
Though his daughter’s words to him had been very wild they did almost more to convince Mr Wharton that he should not give money to his son-in-law than even the letters which had passed between them. To Emily herself he spoke very little as to what had occurred that evening. ‘Papa,’ she said, ‘do not ask me anything more about it. I was very miserable, – because of the dinner.’ Nor did he at that time ask her any questions, contenting himself with assuring her that, at any rate at present, and till after her baby should have been born, she must remain in Manchester Square. ‘He won’t hurt me,’ said Mr Wharton, and then added with a smile, ‘He won’t want to have any more dinner parties while I am here.’
Nor did he make any complaint to Lopez as to what had been done, or even allude to the dinner. But when he had been back about a week he announced to his son-in-law his final determination as to money. ‘I had better tell you, Lopez, what I mean to do, so that you may not be left in doubt. I shall not entrust any further sum of money into your hands on behalf of Emily.’
‘You can do as you please, sir, – of course.’
‘Just so. You have had what to me is a very considerable sum, – though I fear that it did not go for much in your large concerns.’
‘It was not very much, Mr Wharton.’
‘I dare say not. Opinions on such a matter differ, you know. At any rate, there will be no more. At present I wish Emily to live here, and you, of course, are welcome here also. If things are not going well with you, this will, at any rate, relieve you from immediate expense.’
‘My calculations, sir, have never descended to that.’
‘Mine are more minute. The necessities of my life have caused me to think of these little things. When I am dead there will be provision for Emily made by my will, – the income going to trustees for her benefit, and the capital to her children after her death. I thought it only fair to you that this should be explained.’
‘And you will do nothing for me?’
‘Nothing; – if that is nothing. I should have thought that your present maintenance and the future support of your wife and children would have been regarded as something.’
‘It is nothing; – nothing!’
‘Then let it be nothing. Good morning.’
Two days after that Lopez recurred to the subject. ‘You were very explicit with me the other day, sir.’
‘I meant to be so.’
‘And I will be equally so to you now. Both I and your daughter are absolutely ruined unless you reconsider your purpose.’
‘If you mean money by reconsideration, – present money to
be given to you, – I certainly shall not reconsider it. You may take my solemn assurance that I will give you nothing that can be of any service to you in trade.’
‘Then, sir, – I must tell you my purpose, and give you my assurance, which is equally solemn. Under those circumstances I must leave England, and try my fortune in Central America. There is an opening for me at Guatemala, though not a very hopeful one.’
‘Guatemala!’
‘Yes; – friends of mine have a connection there. I have not broken it to Emily yet, but under these circumstances she will have to go.’
‘You will not take her to Guatemala!’
‘Not take my wife, sir? Indeed I shall. Do you suppose that I would go away and leave my wife a pensioner on your bounty? Do you think that she would wish to desert her husband? I don’t think you know your daughter.’
‘I wish you had never known her.’
‘That is neither here nor there, sir. If I cannot succeed in this country I must go elsewhere. As I have told you before, £20,000 at the present moment would enable me to surmount all my difficulties, and make me a very wealthy man. But unless I can command some such sum by Christmas everything here must be sacrificed.’
‘Never in my life did I hear so base a proposition,’ said Mr Wharton.
‘Why is it base? I can only tell you the truth.’
‘So be it. You will find that I mean what I have said.’
‘So do I, Mr Wharton.’
‘As to my daughter, she must, of course, do as she thinks fit.’
‘She must do as I think fit, Mr Wharton.’
‘I will not argue with you. Alas, alas; poor girl!’
‘Poor girl, indeed! She is likely to be a poor girl if she is treated in this way by her father. As I understand that you intend to use, or to try to use, authority over her, I shall take steps for removing her at once from your house.’ And so the interview was ended.
Lopez had thought the matter over, and had determined to ‘brazen it out’, as he himself called it. Nothing further was, he thought, to be got by civility and obedience. Now he must use his power. His idea of going to Guatemala was not an invention of the moment, nor was it devoid of a certain basis of truth. Such a suggestion had been made to him some time since by Mr Mills Happerton. There were mines in Guatemala which wanted, or at some future day might want, a resident director. The proposition had been made to Lopez before his marriage, and Mr Happerton probably had now forgotten all about it; – but the thing was of service now. He broke the matter very suddenly to his wife. ‘Has your father been speaking to you of my plans?’
‘Not lately; – not that I remember.’
‘He could not speak of them without your remembering, I should think. Has he told you that I am going to Guatemala?’
‘Guatemala! Where is Guatemala, Ferdinand?’
‘You can answer my question though your geography is deficient.’
‘He has said nothing about your going anywhere.’
‘You will have to go, – as soon after Christmas as you may be fit.’
‘But where is Guatemala; – and for how long, Ferdinand?’
‘Guatemala is in Central America, and we shall probably settle there for the rest of our lives. I have got nothing to live on here.’
During the next two months this plan of seeking a distant home and a strange country was constantly spoken of in Manchester Square, and did receive corroboration from Mr Happerton himself. Lopez renewed his application and received a letter from that gentleman saying that the thing might probably be arranged if he were in earnest. ‘I am quite in earnest,’ Lopez said as he showed this letter to Mr Wharton. ‘I suppose Emily will be able to start two months after her confinement. They tell me that babies do very well at sea.’
During this time, in spite of his threat, he continued to live with Mr Wharton in Manchester Square, and went every day into the city, – whether to make arrangements and receive instructions as to Guatemala, or to carry on his old business, neither Emily nor her father knew. He never at this time spoke about his affairs to either of them, but daily referred to her future expatriation as a thing that was certain. At last there came up the actual question, – whether she were to go or not. Her father told her that though she was doubtless bound by law to obey her husband, in such a matter as this she might defy the law. ‘I do not think that he can actually force you on board the ship,’ her father said.
‘But if he tells me that I must go?’
‘Stay here with me,’ said the father. ‘Stay here with your baby. I’ll fight it out for you. I’ll so manage that you shall have all the world on your side.’
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 wi
lling 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.’
THE PRIME MINISTER Page 52