It ain't what I call manly,--not that longing after other folk's money.When it's come by hard work, as I tell Sexty,--by the very sweat of his brow,--oh,--it's sweet as sweet.When he'd tell me that he'd made his three pound, or his five pound, or, perhaps, his ten in a day, and'd calculate it up, how much it'd come to if he did that every day, and where we could go to, and what we could do for the children, I loved to hear him talk about money.But now--! why, it's altered the looks of the man altogether.It's just as though he was a-thirsting for blood.'
Thirsting for blood! Yes, indeed.It was the very idea that had occurred to Mrs Lopez herself when her husband bade her to 'get round her father'.No;--it certainly was not manly.There certainly was neither the fear of God in it, nor mercy.Yes;--she would try.But as for bowels of compassion in Ferdinand Lopez--; she, the young wife, had already seen enough of her husband to think that he was not to be moved by any prayers on that side.Then the two women bade each other farewell.'Parker has been talking of my going to Manchester Square,' said Mrs Parker, 'but I shan't.What'd I be in Manchester Square? And, besides, there'd better be an end of it.Mr Lopez'd turn Sexty and me out of the house at a moment's notice if it wasn't for the money.'
'It's papa's house,' said Mrs Lopez, not, however, meaning to make an attack upon her husband.
'I suppose so, but I shan't come to trouble no one, and we live ever so far away, at Ponder's End,--out or your line altogether, Mrs Lopez.But I've taken to you and will never think ill of you in any way--and do as you said you would.'
'I will try,' said Mrs Lopez.
In the meantime Lopez received from Mr Wharton an answer to his letter about the missing caravels, which did not please him.
Here is the letter:
MY DEAR LOPEZ, I cannot say that your statement is satisfactory, nor can I reconcile it to your assurance to me that you have made a trade income for some years past of 2,000 pounds a year.I do not know much of business, but I cannot imagine such a result from such a condition of things as you describe.Have you any books; and if so, will you allow them to be inspected by any accountant that I may name?
You say that a sum of 20,000 pounds would suit your business better now than when I am dead.Very likely.
But with such an account of the business as that you have given me, I do not know that I feel disposed to confide my savings of my life to assist so very doubtful an enterprise.Of course whatever I may do to your advantage will be done for the sake of Emily and her children, should she have any.As far I can see at present, I shall best do my duty to her, by leaving what I may have to leave to her, to trustees, for her benefit and that of her children.
Yours truly, A.WHARTON
This, of course, did not tend to mollify the spirit of the man to whom it was written, or to make him gracious towards his wife.
He received the letter three weeks before the lodgings at Dovercourt were given up,--but during these three weeks he was very little at the place, and when there did not mention the letter.On these occasions he said nothing about business, but satisfied himself with giving strict injunctions as to economy.
Then he took her back to town on the day after her promise to Mrs Parker that she would 'try'.Mrs Parker had told her that no woman ought to be afraid to speak to her husband, and, if necessary, to speak roundly on such subjects.Mrs Parker was certainly not a highly educated lady, but she had impressed Emily with an admiration for her practical good sense and proper feeling.The lady who was a lady had begun to feel that in the troubles of her life she might fine a much less satisfactory companion than the lady who was not a lady.She would do as Mrs Parker had told her.She would not be afraid.Of course it was right that she should speak on such a matter.She knew herself to be an obedient wife.She had borne all her unexpected sorrows without a complaint, with a resolve that she would bear all for his sake,--not because she loved him, but because she had made herself his wife.Into whatever calamities he might fall, she would share them.Though he should bring her utterly into the dirt, she would remain in that dirt with him.It seemed probable to her that it might be so;--that they might have to go into the dirt;--and if it were so, she would still be true to him.She had chosen to marry him, and she would be a true wife.But, as such, she would not be afraid of him.Mrs Parker had told her that 'a woman should never be afraid of 'em', and she believed in Mrs Parker.In this case, too, it was clearly her duty to speak, --for the injury being done was terrible, and might too probably become tragical.How could she endure to think of that woman and her children, should she come to know that the husband of the woman and the father of the children had been ruined by her husband?
Yes;--she would speak to him.But she did fear.It is all very well for a woman to tell herself that she will encounter some anticipated difficulty without fear,--or for a man either.The fear cannot be overcome by will.The thing, however, may be done, whether it be leading a forlorn hope, or speaking to an angry husband,--in spite of fear.She would do it; but when the moment for doing it came, her very heart trembled within her.He had been so masterful with her, so persistent in repudiating her interference, so exacting in his demands for obedience, so capable of ****** her miserable by his moroseness when she failed to comply with his wishes, that she could not go to her task without fear.But she did feel that she ought not to be afraid, or that her fears, at any rate, should not be allowed to restrain her.A wife, she knew, should be prepared to yield, but yet was entitled to be her husband's counsellor.And it was now the case that in this matter she was conversant with circumstances which were unknown to her husband.It was to her that Mrs Parker's appeal had been made, and with a direct request from the poor woman that it should be repeated to her husband's partner.
