The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “I am not afraid of you; — but I am afraid for you. I fear for your happiness, — and for my own.”

  “So do I, papa. But what can be done? I suppose sometimes people must be unhappy. I can’t change myself, and I can’t change you. I find myself to be as much bound to Mr. Lopez as though I were his wife.”

  “No, no! you shouldn’t say so. You’ve no right to say so.”

  “But I have given you a promise, and I certainly will keep it. If we must be unhappy, still we need not, — need not quarrel; need we, papa?” Then she came up to him and kissed him, — whereupon he went out of the room wiping his eyes.

  That evening he again spoke to her, saying merely a word. “I think, my dear, we’ll have it fixed that we go on the 30th. Sir Alured seemed to wish it.”

  “Very well, papa; — I shall be quite ready.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  A Lover’s Perseverance

  Ferdinand Lopez learned immediately through Mrs. Roby that the early departure for Herefordshire had been fixed. “I should go to him and speak to him very plainly,” said Mrs. Roby. “He can’t bite you.”

  “I’m not in the least afraid of his biting me.”

  “You can talk so well! I should tell him everything, especially about money, — which I’m sure is all right.”

  “Yes, — that is all right,” said Lopez, smiling.

  “And about your people.”

  “Which I’ve no doubt you think is all wrong.”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” said Mrs. Roby, “and I don’t much care. He has old-world notions. At any rate you should say something, so that he should not be able to complain to her that you had kept him in the dark. If there is anything to be known, it’s much better to have it known.”

  “But there is nothing to be known.”

  “Then tell him nothing; — but still tell it to him. After that you must trust to her. I don’t suppose she’d go off with you.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t.”

  “But she’s as obstinate as a mule. She’ll get the better of him if you really mean it.” He assured her that he really did mean it, and determined that he would take her advice as to seeing, or endeavouring to see, Mr. Wharton once again. But before doing so he thought it to be expedient to put his house into order, so that he might be able to make a statement of his affairs if asked to do so. Whether they were flourishing or the reverse, it might be necessary that he should have to speak of them, — with, at any rate, apparent candour.

  The reader may, perhaps, remember that in the month of April Ferdinand Lopez had managed to extract a certain signature from his unfortunate city friend, Sexty Parker, which made that gentleman responsible for the payment of a considerable sum of money before the end of July. The transaction had been one of an unmixed painful nature to Mr. Parker. As soon as he came to think of it, after Lopez had left him, he could not prevail upon himself to forgive himself for his folly. That he, — he, Sextus Parker, — should have been induced by a few empty words to give his name for seven hundred and fifty pounds without any consideration or possibility of benefit! And the more he thought of it the more sure he was that the money was lost. The next day he confirmed his own fears, and before a week was gone he had written down the sum as gone. He told nobody. He did not like to confess his folly. But he made some inquiry about his friend, — which was absolutely futile. No one that he knew seemed to know anything of the man’s affairs. But he saw his friend from time to time in the city, shining as only successful men do shine, and he heard of him as one whose name was becoming known in the city. Still he suffered grievously. His money was surely gone. A man does not fly a kite in that fashion till things with him have reached a bad pass.

  So it was with Mr. Parker all through May and to the end of June, — the load ever growing heavier and heavier as the time became nearer. Then, while he was still afflicted with a heaviness of spirits which had never left him since that fatal day, who but Ferdinand Lopez should walk into his office, wearing the gayest smile and with a hat splendid as hats are splendid only in the city. And nothing could be more “jolly” than his friend’s manner, — so much so that Sexty was almost lifted up into temporary jollity himself. Lopez, seating himself, almost at once began to describe a certain speculation into which he was going rather deeply, and as to which he invited his friend Parker’s co-operation. He was intending, evidently, not to ask, but to confer, a favour.

  “I rather think that steady business is best,” said Parker. “I hope it’s all right about that £750.”

  “Ah; yes; — I meant to have told you. I didn’t want the money, as it turned out, for much above a fortnight, and as there was no use in letting the bill run out, I settled it.” So saying he took out a pocket-book, extracted the bill, and showed it to Sexty. Sexty’s heart fluttered in his bosom. There was his name still on the bit of paper, and it might still be used. Having it shown to him after this fashion in its mid career, of course he had strong ground for hope. But he could not bring himself to put out his hand for it. “As to what you say about steady business, of course that’s very well,” said Lopez. “It depends upon whether a man wants to make a small income or a large fortune.” He still held the bill as though he were going to fold it up again, and the importance of it was so present to Sexty’s mind that he could hardly digest the argument about the steady business. “I own that I am not satisfied with the former,” continued Lopez, “and that I go in for the fortune.” As he spoke he tore the bill into three or four bits, apparently without thinking of it, and let the fragments fall upon the floor. It was as though a mountain had been taken off Sexty’s bosom. He felt almost inclined to send out for a bottle of champagne on the moment, and the arguments of his friend rang in his ears with quite a different sound. The allurements of a steady income paled before his eyes, and he too began to tell himself, as he had often told himself before, that if he would only keep his eyes open and his heart high there was no reason why he too should not become a city millionaire. But on that occasion Lopez left him soon, without saying very much about his favourite speculation. In a few days, however, the same matter was brought before Sexty’s eyes from another direction. He learned from a side wind that the house of Hunky and Sons was concerned largely in this business, — or at any rate he thought that he had so learned. The ease with which Lopez had destroyed that bill six weeks before it was due had had great effect upon him. Those arguments about a large fortune or a small income still clung to him. Lopez had come to him about the business in the first instance, but it was now necessary that he should go to Lopez. He was, however, very cautious. He managed to happen to meet Lopez in the street, and introduced the subject in his own slap-dash, aery manner, — the result of which was, that he had gone rather deep into two or three American mines before the end of July. But he had already made some money out of them, and, though he would find himself sometimes trembling before he had taken his daily allowance of port wine and brandy-and-water, still he was buoyant, and hopeful of living in a park, with a palace at the West End, and a seat in Parliament. Knowing also, as he did, that his friend Lopez was intimate with the Duchess of Omnium, he had much immediate satisfaction in the intimacy which these relations created. He was getting in the thin edge of the wedge, and would calculate as he went home to Ponder’s End how long it must be before he could ask his friend to propose him at some West End club. On one halcyon summer evening Lopez had dined with him at Ponder’s End, had smiled on Mrs. Parker, and played with the hopeful little Parkers. On that occasion Sexty had assured his wife that he regarded his friendship with Ferdinand Lopez as the most fortunate circumstance of his life. “Do be careful, Sexty,” the poor woman had said. But Parker had simply told her that she understood nothing about business. On that evening Lopez had thoroughly imbued him with the conviction that if you will only set your mind that way, it is quite as easy to amass a large fortune as to earn a small income.

  About a week before the departure of the
Whartons for Herefordshire, Lopez, in compliance with Mrs. Roby’s counsels, called at the chambers in Stone Buildings. It is difficult to say that you will not see a man, when the man is standing just on the other side of an open door; — nor, in this case, was Mr. Wharton quite clear that he had better decline to see the man. But while he was doubting, — at any rate before he had resolved upon denying his presence, — the man was there, inside his room. Mr. Wharton got up from his chair, hesitated a moment, and then gave his hand to the intruder in that half-unwilling, unsatisfactory manner which most of us have experienced when shaking hands with some cold-blooded, ungenial acquaintance. “Well, Mr. Lopez, — what can I do for you?” he said, as he reseated himself. He looked as though he were at his ease and master of the situation. He had control over himself sufficient for assuming such a manner. But his heart was not high within his bosom. The more he looked at the man the less he liked him.

  “There is one thing, and one thing only, you can do for me,” said Lopez. His voice was peculiarly sweet, and when he spoke his words seemed to mean more than when they came from other mouths. But Mr. Wharton did not like sweet voices and mellow, soft words, — at least not from men’s mouths.

  “I do not think that I can do anything for you, Mr. Lopez,” he said. There was a slight pause, during which the visitor put down his hat and seemed to hesitate. “I think your coming here can be of no avail. Did I not explain myself when I saw you before?”

  “But, I fear, I did not explain myself. I hardly told my story.”

  “You can tell it, of course, — if you think the telling will do you any good.”

  “I was not able to say then, as I can say now, that your daughter has accepted my love.”

  “You ought not to have spoken to my daughter on the subject after what passed between us. I told you my mind frankly.”

  “Ah, Mr. Wharton, how was obedience in such a matter possible? What would you yourself think of a man who in such a position would be obedient? I did not seek her secretly. I did nothing underhand. Before I had once directly asked her for her love, I came to you.”

  “What’s the use of that, if you go to her immediately afterwards in manifest opposition to my wishes? You found yourself bound, as would any gentleman, to ask a father’s leave, and when it was refused, you went on just as though it had been granted! Don’t you call that a mockery?”

  “I can say now, sir, what I could not say then. We love each other. And I am as sure of her as I am of myself when I assert that we shall be true to each other. You must know her well enough to be sure of that also.”

  “I am sure of nothing but of this; — that I will not give her my consent to become your wife.”

  “What is your objection, Mr. Wharton?”

  “I explained it before as far as I found myself called upon to explain it.”

  “Are we both to be sacrificed for some reason that we neither of us understand?”

  “How dare you take upon yourself to say that she doesn’t understand! Because I refuse to be more explicit to you, a stranger, do you suppose that I am equally silent to my own child?”

  “In regard to money and social rank I am able to place your daughter as my wife in a position as good as she now holds as Miss Wharton.”

  “I care nothing about money, Mr. Lopez, and our ideas of social rank are perhaps different. I have nothing further to say to you, and I do not think that you can have anything further to say to me that can be of any avail.” Then, having finished his speech, he got up from his chair and stood upright, thereby demanding of his visitor that he should depart.

  “I think it no more than honest, Mr. Wharton, to declare this one thing. I regard myself as irrevocably engaged to your daughter; and she, although she has refused to bind herself to me by that special word, is, I am certain, as firmly fixed in her choice as I am in mine. My happiness, as a matter of course, can be nothing to you.”

  “Not much,” said the lawyer, with angry impatience.

  Lopez smiled, but he put down the word in his memory and determined that he would treasure it there. “Not much, at any rate as yet,” he said. “But her happiness must be much to you.”

  “It is everything. But in thinking of her happiness I must look beyond what might be the satisfaction of the present day. You must excuse me, Mr. Lopez, if I say that I would rather not discuss the matter with you any further.” Then he rang the bell and passed quickly into an inner room. When the clerk came Lopez of course marched out of the chambers and went his way.

  Mr. Wharton had been very firm, and yet he was shaken. It was by degrees becoming a fixed idea in his mind that the man’s material prosperity was assured. He was afraid even to allude to the subject when talking to the man himself, lest he should be overwhelmed by evidence on that subject. Then the man’s manner, though it was distasteful to Wharton himself, would, he well knew, recommend him to others. He was good-looking, he lived with people who were highly regarded, he could speak up for himself, and he was a favoured guest at Carlton House Terrace. So great had been the fame of the Duchess and her hospitality during the last two months, that the fact of the man’s success in this respect had come home even to Mr. Wharton. He feared that the world would be against him, and he already began to dread the joint opposition of the world and his own child. The world of this day did not, he thought, care whether its daughters’ husbands had or had not any fathers or mothers. The world as it was now didn’t care whether its sons-in-law were Christian or Jewish; — whether they had the fair skin and bold eyes and uncertain words of an English gentleman, or the swarthy colour and false grimace and glib tongue of some inferior Latin race. But he cared for these things; — and it was dreadful to him to think that his daughter should not care for them. “I suppose I had better die and leave them to look after themselves,” he said, as he returned to his arm-chair.

  Lopez himself was not altogether ill-satisfied with the interview, not having expected that Mr. Wharton would have given way at once, and bestowed upon him then and there the kind father-in-law’s “bless you, — bless you!” Something yet had to be done before the blessing would come, or the girl, — or the money. He had to-day asserted his own material success, speaking of himself as of a moneyed man, — and the statement had been received with no contradiction, — even without the suggestion of a doubt. He did not therefore suppose that the difficulty was over; but he was clever enough to perceive that the aversion to him on another score might help to tide him over that difficulty. And if once he could call the girl his wife, he did not doubt but that he could build himself up with the old barrister’s money. After leaving Lincoln’s Inn he went at once to Berkeley Street, and was soon closeted with Mrs. Roby. “You can get her here before they go?” he said.

  “She wouldn’t come; — and if we arranged it without letting her know that you were to be here, she would tell her father. She hasn’t a particle of female intrigue in her.”

  “So much the better,” said the lover.

  “That’s all very well for you to say, but when a man makes such a tyrant of himself as Mr. Wharton is doing, a girl is bound to look after herself. If it was me I’d go off with my young man before I’d stand such treatment.”

  “You could give her a letter.”

  “She’d only show it her father. She is so perverse that I sometimes feel inclined to say that I’ll have nothing further to do with her.”

  “You’ll give her a message at any rate?”

  “Yes, — I can do that; — because I can do it in a way that won’t seem to make it important.”

  “But I want my message to be very important. Tell her that I’ve seen her father, and have offered to explain all my affairs to him, — so that he may know that there is nothing to fear on her behalf.”

  “It isn’t any thought of money that is troubling him.”

  “But tell her what I say. He, however, would listen to nothing. Then I assured him that no consideration on earth would induce me to surrender her, and th
at I was as sure of her as I am of myself. Tell her that; — and tell her that I think she owes it to me to say one word to me before she goes into the country.”

  CHAPTER XV

  Arthur Fletcher

  It may, I think, be a question whether the two old men acted wisely in having Arthur Fletcher at Wharton Hall when Emily arrived there. The story of his love for Miss Wharton, as far as it had as yet gone, must be shortly told. He had been the second son, as he was now the second brother, of a Herefordshire squire endowed with much larger property than that belonging to Sir Alured. John Fletcher, Esq., of Longbarns, some twelve miles from Wharton, was a considerable man in Herefordshire. This present squire had married Sir Alured’s eldest daughter, and the younger brother had, almost since they were children together, been known to be in love with Emily Wharton. All the Fletchers and everything belonging to them were almost worshipped at Wharton Hall. There had been marriages between the two families certainly as far back as the time of Henry VII, and they were accustomed to speak, if not of alliances, at any rate of friendships, much anterior to that. As regards family, therefore, the pretensions of a Fletcher would always be held to be good by a Wharton. But this Fletcher was the very pearl of the Fletcher tribe. Though a younger brother, he had a very pleasant little fortune of his own. Though born to comfortable circumstances, he had worked so hard in his young days as to have already made for himself a name at the bar. He was a fair-haired, handsome fellow, with sharp, eager eyes, with an aquiline nose, and just that shape of mouth and chin which such men as Abel Wharton regarded as characteristic of good blood. He was rather thin, about five feet ten in height, and had the character of being one of the best horsemen in the county. He was one of the most popular men in Herefordshire, and at Longbarns was almost as much thought of as the squire himself. He certainly was not the man to be taken, from his appearance, for a forlorn lover. He looked like one of those happy sons of the gods who are born to success. No young man of his age was more courted both by men and women. There was no one who in his youth had suffered fewer troubles from those causes of trouble which visit English young men, — occasional impecuniosity, sternness of parents, native shyness, fear of ridicule, inability of speech, and a general pervading sense of inferiority combined with an ardent desire to rise to a feeling of conscious superiority. So much had been done for him by nature that he was never called upon to pretend to anything. Throughout the county those were the lucky men, — and those too were the happy girls, — who were allowed to call him Arthur. And yet this paragon was vainly in love with Emily Wharton, who, in the way of love, would have nothing to say to him, preferring, — as her father once said in his extremest wrath, — a greasy Jew adventurer out of the gutter!