The Palliser Novels (473 page)

“I don’t know that there is any necessity,” said Mr. Hartlepod.

“Well, — I suppose it’s simple enough,” continued Lopez. “Mr. Wharton, I believe I am right in saying that you are ready to pay the money at once.”

“Yes; — I am ready to pay the money as soon as I am assured that you are on your route to Guatemala. I will not pay a penny till I know that as a fact.”

Then Mr. Hartlepod rose from his seat and spoke. “Gentlemen,” he said, “the matter within the last few days has assumed a different complexion.”

“As how?” exclaimed Lopez.

“The Directors have changed their mind as to sending out Mr. Lopez as their local manager. The Directors intend to appoint another gentleman. I had already acquainted Mr. Lopez with the Directors’ intention.”

“Then the matter is settled?” said Mr. Wharton.

“Quite settled,” said Mr. Hartlepod.

As a matter of course Lopez began to fume and to be furious. What! — after all that had been done did the Directors mean to go back from their word? After he had been induced to abandon his business in his own country, was he to be thrown over in that way? If the Company intended to treat him like that, the Company would very soon hear from him. Thank God there were laws in the land. “Yesterday was the last day fixed for the payment of the money,” said Mr. Hartlepod.

“It is at any rate certain that Mr. Lopez is not to go to Guatemala?” asked Mr. Wharton.

“Quite certain,” said Mr. Hartlepod. Then Mr. Wharton rose from his chair and quitted the room.

“By G––––, you have ruined me among you,” said Lopez; — “ruined me in the most shameful manner. There is no mercy, no friendship, no kindness, no forbearance anywhere! Why am I to be treated in this manner?” 

“If you have any complaint to make,” said Mr. Hartlepod, “you had better write to the Directors. I have nothing to do but my duty.”

“By heavens, the Directors shall hear of it!” said Lopez as he left the office.

Mr. Wharton went to his chambers and endeavoured to make up his mind what step he must now take in reference to this dreadful incubus. Of course he could turn the man out of his house, but in so doing it might well be that he would also turn out his own daughter. He believed Lopez to be utterly without means, and a man so destitute would generally be glad to be relieved from the burden of his wife’s support. But this man would care nothing for his wife’s comfort; nothing even, as Mr. Wharton believed, for his wife’s life. He would simply use his wife as best he might as a means for obtaining money. There was nothing to be done but to buy him off, by so much money down, and by so much at stated intervals as long as he should keep away. Mr. Walker must manage it, but it was quite clear to Mr. Wharton that the Guatemala scheme was altogether at an end. In the meantime a certain sum must be offered to the man at once, on condition that he would leave the house and do so without taking his wife with him.

So far Mr. Wharton had a plan, and a plan that was at least feasible. Wretched as he was, miserable, as he thought of the fate which had befallen his daughter, — there was still a prospect of some relief. But Lopez as he walked out of the office had nothing to which he could look for comfort. He slowly made his way to Little Tankard Yard, and there he found Sexty Parker balancing himself on the back legs of his chair, with a small decanter of public-house sherry before him. “What; you here?” he said.

“Yes; — I have come to say good-bye.”

“Where are you going then? You shan’t start to Guatemala if I know it.”

“That’s all over, my boy,” said Lopez, smiling.

“What is it you mean?” said Sexty, sitting square on his chair and looking very serious.

“I am not going to Guatemala or anywhere else. I thought I’d just look in to tell you that I’m just done for, — that I haven’t a hope of a shilling now or hereafter. You told me the other day that I was afraid to come here. You see that as soon as anything is fixed, I come and tell you everything at once.”

“What is fixed?”

“That I am ruined. That there isn’t a penny to come from any source.”

“Wharton has got money,” said Sexty.

“And there is money in the Bank of England, — but I cannot get at it.”

“What are you going to do, Lopez?”

“Ah; that’s the question. What am I going to do? I can say nothing about that, but I can say, Sexty, that our affairs are at an end. I’m very sorry for it, old boy. We ought to have made fortunes, but we didn’t. As far as the work went, I did my best. Good-bye, old fellow. You’ll do well some of these days yet, I don’t doubt. Don’t teach the bairns to curse me. As for Mrs. P. I have no hope there, I know.” Then he went, leaving Sexty Parker quite aghast.

When Mr. Wharton was in Coleman Street, having his final interview with Mr. Hartlepod, there came a visitor to Mrs. Lopez in Manchester Square. Up to this date there had been great doubt with Mr. Wharton whether at last the banishment to Guatemala would become a fact. From day to day his mind had changed. It had been an infinite benefit that Lopez should go, if he could be got to go alone, but as great an evil if at last he should take his wife with him. But the father had never dared to express these doubts to her, and she had taught herself to think that absolute banishment with a man whom she certainly no longer loved, was the punishment she had to pay for the evil she had done. It was now March, and the second or third of April had been fixed for her departure. Of course, she had endeavoured from time to time to learn all that was to be learned from her husband. Sometimes he would be almost communicative to her; at other times she could get hardly a word from him. But, through it all, he gave her to believe that she would have to go. Nor did her father make any great effort to turn his mind the other way. If it must be so, of what use would be such false kindness on his part? She had therefore gone to work to make her purchases, studying that economy which must henceforth be the great duty of her life, and reminding herself as to everything she bought that it would have to be worn with tears and used in sorrow.

And then she sent a message to Arthur Fletcher. It so happened that Sir Alured Wharton was up in London at this time with his daughter Mary. Sir Alured did not come to Manchester Square. There was nothing that the old baronet could say in the midst of all this misery, — no comfort that he could give. It was well-known now to all the Whartons and all the Fletchers that this Lopez, who had married her who was to have been the pearl of the two families, had proved himself to be a scoundrel. The two old Whartons met no doubt at some club, or perhaps in Stone Buildings, and spoke some few bitter words to each other; but Sir Alured did not see the unfortunate young woman who had disgraced herself by so wretched a marriage. But Mary came, and by her a message was sent to Arthur Fletcher. “Tell him that I am going,” said Emily. “Tell him not to come; but give him my love. He was always one of my kindest friends.”

“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.”