And yet she had to hide from him her own perception of himself! She had to sympathise with his desires and yet to abstain from doing that which his desires demanded from her. Alas, poor girl! She soon knew that her marriage had been a mistake. There was probably no one moment in which she made the confession to herself. But the conviction was there, in her mind, as though the confession had been made. Then there would come upon her unbidden, unwelcome reminiscences of Arthur Fletcher—thoughts that she would struggle to banish, accusing herself of some heinous crime because the thoughts would come back to her. She remembered his light wavy hair, which she had loved as one loves the beauty of a dog, which had seemed to her young imagination, to her in the ignorance of her early years, to lack something of a dreamed-of manliness. She remembered his eager, boyish, honest entreaties to herself, which to her had been without that dignity of a superior being which a husband should possess. She became aware that she had thought the less of him because he had thought the more of her. She had worshipped this other man because he had assumed superiority and had told her that he was big enough to be her master. But now—now that it was all too late—the veil had fallen from her eyes. She could now see the difference between manliness and “deportment.” Ah—that she should ever have been so blind, she who had given herself credit for seeing so much clearer than they who were her elders! And now, though at last she did see clearly, she could not have the consolation of telling anyone what she had seen. She must bear it all in silence, and live with it, and still love this god of clay that she had chosen. And, above all, she must never allow herself even to think of that other man with the wavy light hair—that man who was rising in the world, of whom all people said all good things, who was showing himself to be a man by the work he did, and whose true tenderness she could never doubt.
Her father was left to her. She could still love her father. It might be that it would be best for him that she should go back to her old home, and take care of his old age. If he should wish it, she would make no difficulty of parting with the things around her. Of what concern were the prettinesses of life to one whose inner soul was hampered with such ugliness? It might be better that they should live in Manchester Square—if her father wished it. It was clear to her now that her husband was in urgent want of money, though of his affairs, even of his way of making money, she knew nothing. As that was the case, of course she would consent to any practicable retrenchment which he would propose. And then she thought of other coming joys and coming troubles—of how in future years she might have to teach a girl falsely to believe that her father was a good man, and to train a boy to honest purposes whatever parental lessons might come from the other side.
But the mistake she had made was acknowledged. The man who could enjoin her to “get round” her father could never have been worthy of the love she had given him.
XL
“Come and Try It”
The husband was almost jovial when he came home just in time to take his young wife to dine with their father. “I’ve had such a day in the city,” he said, laughing. “I wish I could introduce you to my friend, Mr. Sextus Parker.”
“Cannot you do so?”
“Well, no; not exactly. Of course you’d like him because he is such a wonderful character, but he’d hardly do for your drawing-room. He’s the vulgarest little creature you ever put your eyes on; and yet in a certain way he’s my partner.”
“Then I suppose you trust him?”
“Indeed I don’t;—but I make him useful. Poor little Sexty! I do trust him to a degree, because he believes in me and thinks he can do best by sticking to me. The old saying of ‘honour among thieves’ isn’t without a dash of truth in it. When two men are in a boat together they must be true to each other, else neither will get to the shore.”
“You don’t attribute high motives to your friend.”
“I’m afraid there are not very many high motives in the world, my girl, especially in the city;—nor yet at Westminster. It can hardly be from high motives when a lot of men, thinking differently on every possible subject, come together for the sake of pay and power. I don’t know whether, after all, Sextus Parker mayn’t have as high motives as the Duke of Omnium. I don’t suppose anyone ever had lower motives than the Duchess when she chiselled me about Silverbridge. Never mind;—it’ll all be one a hundred years hence. Get ready, for I want you to be with your father a little before dinner.”
Then, when they were in the brougham together, he began a course of very plain instructions. “Look here, dear; you had better get him to talk to you before
