“You might say the same if it were my father.”
He paused at this, but only for a moment. “Certainly I might. It is not probable, but no doubt I might do so. If your father were to quarrel with me, you would not, I suppose, hesitate between us?”
“Nothing on earth could divide me from you.”
“Nor me from you. In this very matter I am only taking your part, if you did but know it.” They had now passed on, and had met other persons, having made their way through a little shrubbery on to a further lawn; and she had hoped, as they were surrounded by people, that he would allow the matter to drop. She had been unable as yet to make up her mind as to what she would say if he pressed her hard. But if it could be passed by—if nothing more were demanded from her—she would endeavour to forget it all, saying to herself that it had come from sudden passion. But he was too resolute for such a termination as that, and too keenly alive to the expediency of making her thoroughly subject to him. So he turned her round and took her back through the shrubbery, and in the middle of it stopped her again and renewed his demand. “Promise me that you will not speak again to Mr. Fletcher.”
“Then I must tell papa.”
“No;—you shall tell him nothing.”
“Ferdinand, if you exact a promise from me that I will not speak to Mr. Fletcher or bow to him should circumstances bring us together as they did just now, I must explain to my father why I have done so.”
“You will wilfully disobey me?”
“In that I must.” He glared at her, almost as though he were going to strike her, but she bore his look without flinching. “I have left all my old friends, Ferdinand, and have given myself heart and soul to you. No woman did so with a truer love or more devoted intention of doing her duty to her husband. Your affairs shall be my affairs.”
“Well; yes; rather.”
She was endeavouring to assure him of her truth, but could understand the sneer which was conveyed in his acknowledgement. “But you cannot, nor can I for your sake, abolish the things which have been.”
“I wish to abolish nothing that has been. I speak of the future.”
“Between our family and that of Mr. Fletcher there has been old friendship which is still very dear to my father—the memory of which is still very dear to me. At your request I am willing to put all that aside from me. There is no reason why I should ever see any of the Fletchers again. Our lives will be apart. Should we meet our greeting would be very slight. The separation can be effected without words. But if you demand an absolute promise—I must tell my father.”
“We will go home at once,” he said instantly, and aloud. And home they went, back to London, without exchanging a word on the journey. He was absolutely black with rage, and she was content to remain silent. The promise was not given, nor, indeed, was it exacted under the conditions which the wife had imposed upon it. He was most desirous to make her subject to his will in all things, and quite prepared to exercise tyranny over her to any extent—so that her father should know nothing of it. He could not afford to quarrel with Mr. Wharton. “You had better go to bed,” he said, when he got her back to town;—and she went, if not to bed, at any rate into her own room.
XXXVIII
Sir Orlando Retires
“He is a horrid man. He came here and quarrelled with the other man in my house, or rather down at Richmond, and made a fool of himself, and then quarrelled with his wife and took her away. What fools, what asses, what horrors men are! How impossible it is to be civil and gracious without getting into a mess. I am tempted to say that I will never know anybody any more.” Such was the complaint made by the Duchess to Mrs. Finn a few days after the Richmond party, and from this it was evident that the latter affair had not passed without notice.
“Did he make a noise about it?” asked Mrs. Finn.
“There was not a row, but there was enough of a quarrel to be visible and audible. He walked about and talked loud to the poor woman. Of course it was my own fault. But the man was clever and I liked him, and people told me that he was of the right sort.”
“The Duke heard of it?”
“No;—and I hope he won’t. It would be such a triumph for him, after all the fuss at Silverbridge. But he never hears of anything. If two men fought a duel in his own dining-room he would be the last man in London to know it.”
“Then say nothing about it, and don’t ask the men any more.”
“You may be sure I won’t ask the man with the wife any more. The other man is in Parliament and can’t be thrown over so easily—and it wasn’t his fault. But I’m getting so sick of it all! I’m told that Sir Orlando has complained to Plantagenet that he isn’t asked to the dinners.”
“Impossible!”
“Don’t you mention it, but he has. Warburton has told me so.” Warburton was one of the Duke’s private secretaries.
“What did the Duke say?”
“I don’t quite know. Warburton is one of my familiars, but I didn’t like to ask him for more than he chose to tell me. Warburton suggested that I should invite Sir Orlando at once; but there I was obdurate. Of course, if Plantagenet tells me I’ll ask the man to come every day of the week;—but it is one of those
