He walked across the drawing-room, sat down in an armchair by the table, and took up the last number of a review, without speaking to either of them. Whereupon Mrs. Furnival began to ply her needle which had been lying idly enough upon her work, and Martha Biggs fixed her eyes intently upon her book. So they sat twenty minutes without a word being spoken, and then Mrs. Furnival inquired of her lord whether he chose to have tea.
“Of course I shall—when you have it,” said he.
“Don’t mind us,” said Mrs. Furnival.
“Pray don’t mind me,” said Martha Biggs. “Don’t let me be in the way.”
“No, I won’t,” said Mr. Furnival. Whereupon Miss Biggs again jumped up in her chair as though she had been electrified. It may be remembered that on a former occasion Mr. Furnival had sworn at her—or at least in her presence.
“You need not be rude to a lady in your own house, because she is my friend,” said Mrs. Furnival.
“Bother,” said Mr. Furnival. “And now if we are going to have any tea, let us have it.”
“I don’t think I’ll mind about tea tonight, Mrs. Furnival,” said Miss Biggs, having received a notice from her friend’s eye that it might be well for her to depart. “My head aches dreadful, and I shall be better in bed. Good night, Mrs. Furnival.” And then she took her candle and went away.
For the next five minutes there was not a word said. No tea had been ordered, although it had been mentioned. Mrs. Furnival had forgotten it among the hot thoughts that were running through her mind, and Mr. Furnival was indifferent upon the subject. He knew that something was coming, and he resolved that he would have the upper hand let that something be what it might. He was being ill used—so he said to himself—and would not put up with it.
At last the battle began. He was not looking, but he heard her first movement as she prepared herself. “Tom!” she said, and then the voice of the war goddess was again silent. He did not choose to answer her at the instant, and then the war goddess rose from her seat and again spoke. “Tom!” she said, standing over him and looking at him.
“What is it you mean?” said he, allowing his eyes to rise to her face over the top of his book.
“Tom!” she said for the third time.
“I’ll have no nonsense, Kitty,” said he. “If you have anything to say, say it.”
Even then she had intended to be affectionate—had so intended at the first commencement of her address. She had no wish to be a war goddess. But he had assisted her attempt at love by no gentle word, by no gentle look, by no gentle motion. “I have this to say,” she replied; “you are disgracing both yourself and me, and I will not remain in this house to be a witness to it.”
“Then you may go out of the house.” These words, be it remembered, were uttered not by the man himself, but by the spirit of port wine within the man.
“Tom, do you say that;—after all?”
“By heavens I do say it! I’ll not be told in my own drawing-room, even by you, that I am disgracing myself.”
“Then why do you go after that woman down to Hamworth? All the world is talking of you. At your age too! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I can’t stand this,” said he, getting up and throwing the book from him right across the drawing-room floor; “and, by heavens! I won’t stand it.”
“Then why do you do it, sir?”
“Kitty, I believe the devil must have entered into you to drive you mad.”
“Oh, oh, oh! very well, sir. The devil in the shape of drink and lust has entered into you. But you may understand this; I—will—not—consent to live with you while such deeds as these are being done.” And then without waiting for another word, she stormed out of the room.
XLI
How Can I Save Him?
“I will not consent to live with you while such deeds as these are being done.” Such were the last words which Mrs. Furnival spoke as she walked out of her own drawing-room, leaving her husband still seated in his armchair.
What was he to do? Those who would hang by the letter of the law in such matters may say that he should have rung the bell, sent for his wife, explained to her that obedience was a necessary duty on her part, and have finished by making her understand that she must and would continue to live wherever he chose that she should live. There be those who say that if a man be anything of a man, he can always insure obedience in his own household. He has the power of the purse and the power of the law; and if, having these, he goes to the wall, it must be because he is a poor creature. Those who so say have probably never tried the position.
Mr. Furnival did not wish to send for his wife, because by doing so he would have laid bare his sore before his servants. He could not follow her, because he knew that he should not find her alone in her room. Nor did he wish for any further parley, because he knew that she would speak loud, and probably sob—nay, very possibly proceed to a fainting fit. And, moreover, he much doubted whether he would have the power to keep her in the house if it should be her pleasure to leave it. And then what should he do? The doing of something in such a catastrophe was, he thought, indispensable.
Was ever a man so ill treated? Was ever jealousy so groundless? Here was a woman, with whom he was on the point
