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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.
History relates how a certain Captain Ingerfield, returning with much treasure from the West Indies how acquired it were, perhaps, best not to inquire too closely is overhauled upon the high seas by King's frigate.
So that evening John Ingerfield goes to Covent Garden Theatre, with the blood running a trifle quicker in his veins, but not much, than would be the case were he going to the docks to purchase tallow examines, covertly, the proposed article from the opposite side of the house, and approves her is introduced to her, and, on closer inspection, approves her still more receives an invitation to visit visits frequently, and each time is more satisfied of the rarity, serviceableness, and quality of the article.
Meeting this man by chance one afternoon, he links his arm in his and invites him home to dinner. So soon as they are left alone, with the walnuts and wine between them, John Ingerfield says, thoughtfully cracking a hard nut between his fingers "Will, I'm going to get married."
If by the end of next month you have not introduced me to a lady fit to be, and willing to be, Mrs. John Ingerfield, I shall decline to renew it." John Ingerfield refills his own glass and hospitably pushes the bottle towards his guest who, however, contrary to his custom, takes no notice of it, but stares hard at his shoe-buckles. "Are you serious?" he says at length.
"Tell your Captain," shouts back this Ingerfield, who has discovered there are sweeter things to fight for than even money, "that the Wild Goose has flown the seas with her belly full of treasure before now, and will, if it be God's pleasure, so do again, but that master and man in her sail together, fight together, and die together."
Squalid, outlying Limehouse, belonging to nowhere, cared for by nobody, must fight for itself. John Ingerfield calls the older men together, and with their help attempts to instil some sense and reason into his terrified people.
If all John Ingerfield requires for a wife is a beautiful social machine, surely here he has found his ideal. Her portrait, by Reynolds, still to be seen above the carved wainscoting of one of the old City halls, shows a wonderfully handsome and clever face, but at the same time a wonderfully cold and heartless one. It is the face of a woman half weary of, half sneering at the world.
"That was your business all day running between Notcliff and Ingerfield?" "Yes, sir. Three journeys up and three down mostly." "With the same stops on all the down journeys?" "No. The seven-eleven is the only one that does a run from the Bridge to Swanstead. You see, it is just on the close of the evening rush, as they call it.
The John Ingerfield of this story is a man very typical of his race. He has discovered that the oil and tallow refining business, though not a pleasant one, is an exceedingly lucrative one. These are the good days when George the Third is king, and London is rapidly becoming a city of bright night.
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