John Ingerfield | Page 7

to hang slack. By mutual desire their chains of
wedlock have been fastened as loosely as respect for security will
permit, with the happy consequence that her aversion to him does not
obtrude itself beyond the limits of politeness.
Her part of the contract she faithfully fulfils, for the Singletons also
have their code of honour. Her beauty, her tact, her charm, her
influence, are devoted to his service--to the advancement of his position,
the furtherance of his ambition. Doors that would otherwise remain
closed she opens to him. Society, that would otherwise pass by with a
sneer, sits round his table. His wishes and pleasures are hers. In all
things she yields him wifely duty, seeks to render herself agreeable to
him, suffers in silence his occasional caresses. Whatever was implied in
the bargain, that she will perform to the letter.
He, on his side, likewise performs his part with businesslike
conscientiousness--nay, seeing that the pleasing of her brings no
personal gratification to himself--not without generosity. He is ever
thoughtful of and deferential to her, awarding her at all times an
unvarying courteousness that is none the less sincere for being studied.
Her every expressed want is gratified, her every known distaste
respected. Conscious of his presence being an oppression to her, he is

even careful not to intrude it upon her oftener than is necessary.
At times he asks himself, somewhat pertinently, what he has gained by
marriage--wonders whether this social race was quite the most
interesting game he could have elected to occupy his leisure--wonders
whether, after all, he would not have been happier over his
counting-house than in these sumptuous, glittering rooms, where he
always seems, and feels himself to be, the uninvited guest.
The only feeling that a closer intimacy has created in him for his wife is
that of indulgent contempt. As there is no equality between man and
woman, so there can be no respect. She is a different being. He must
either look up to her as superior to himself, or down upon her as
inferior. When a man does the former he is more or less in love, and
love to John Ingerfield is an unknown emotion. Her beauty, her charm,
her social tact--even while he makes use of them for his own purposes,
he despises as the weapons of a weak nature.
So in their big, cold mansion John Ingerfield and Anne, his wife, sit far
apart, strangers to one another, neither desiring to know the other
nearer.
About his business he never speaks to her, and she never questions him.
To compensate for the slight shrinkage of time he is able to devote to it,
he becomes more strict and exacting; grows a harsher master to his
people, a sterner creditor, a greedier dealer, squeezing the uttermost out
of every one, feverish to grow richer, so that he may spend more upon
the game that day by day he finds more tiresome and uninteresting.
And the piled-up casks upon his wharves increase and multiply; and on
the dirty river his ships and barges lie in ever-lengthening lines; and
round his greasy cauldrons sweating, witch-like creatures swarm in
ever-denser numbers, stirring oil and tallow into gold.
Until one summer, from its nest in the far East, there flutters westward
a foul thing. Hovering over Limehouse suburb, seeing it crowded and
unclean, liking its fetid smell, it settles down upon it.

Typhus is the creature's name. At first it lurks there unnoticed,
battening upon the rich, rank food it finds around it, until, grown too
big to hide longer, it boldly shows its hideous head, and the white face
of Terror runs swiftly through alley and street, crying as it runs, forces
itself into John Ingerfield's counting-house, and tells its tale. John
Ingerfield sits for a while thinking. Then he mounts his horse and rides
home at as hard a pace as the condition of the streets will allow. In the
hall he meets Anne going out, and stops her.
"Don't come too near me," he says quietly. "Typhus fever has broken
out at Limehouse, and they say one can communicate it, even without
having it oneself. You had better leave London for a few weeks. Go
down to your father's: I will come and fetch you when it is all over."
He passes her, giving her a wide berth, and goes upstairs, where he
remains for some minutes in conversation with his valet. Then, coming
down, he remounts and rides off again.
After a little while Anne goes up into his room. His man is kneeling in
the middle of the floor, packing a valise.
"Where are you to take it?" she asks.
"Down to the wharf, ma'am," answers the man: "Mr. Ingerfield is going
to be there for a day or