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The Prime Minister
by Anthony Trollope
April, 2000 [Etext #2158]
[Edition 11 posted: September 14, 2002]
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THE PRIME MINISTER
by Anthony Trollope
TABLE OF CONTENTS
VOLUME I
1 Ferdinand Lopez
2 Everett Wharton
3 Mr Abel Wharton QC
4 Mrs Roby
5 'No one knows anything about him.'
6 An Old Friend Goes to Windsor
7 Another Old Friend
8 The Beginning of a New Career
9 Mrs Dicks' Dinner Party - No 1
10 Mrs Dicks' Dinner Party - No 2
11 Carlton Terrace
12 The Gathering of Clouds
13 Mr Wharton Complains
14 A Lover's Perseverance
15 Arthur Fletcher
16 Never Run Away!
17 Good-bye
18 The Duke of Omnium Thinks of Himself
19 Vulgarity
20 Sir Orlando's Policy
VOLUME II
21 The Duchess's New Swan
22 St James's Park
23 Surrender
24 The Marriage
25 The Beginning of the Honeymoon
26 The End of the Honeymoon
27 The Duke's Misery
28 The Duchess is Much Troubled
29 The Two Candidates for Silverbridge
30 'Yes;--a lie!'
31 'Yes;--with a horsewhip in my hand'
32 'What business is it of yours?'
33 Showing that a Man Should not Howl
34 The Silverbridge Election
35 Lopez Back in London
36 The Jolly Blackbird
37 The Horns
38 Sir Orlando Retires
39 'Get round him'
40 'Come and try it'
VOLUME III
41 The Value of a Thick Skin
42 Retribution
43 Kauri Gum
44 Mr Wharton Thinks of a New Will
45 Mrs Sexty Parker
46 'He wants to get rich too quick'
47 As for Love!
48 'Has he ill-treated you?'
49 Where is Guatemala?
50 Mr Slide's Revenge
51 Coddling the Prime Minister
52 'I can sleep here tonight, I suppose?'
53 Mr Hartlepool
54 Lizzie
55 Mrs Parker's Sorrows
56 What the Duchess Thought of Her Husband
57 The Explanation
58 'Quite settled'
59 The First and the Last
60 The Tenway Junction
VOLUME III
61 The Widow and her Friends
62 Phineas Finn Has a Book to Read
63 The Duchess and her Friend
64 The New K.G.
65 There Must Be Time
66 The End of the Session
67 Mrs Lopez Prepares to Move
68 The Prime Minister's Political Creed
69 Mrs Parker's Fate
70 At Wharton
71 The Ladies at Longbarns Doubt
72 'He thinks that our days are numbered'
73 Only the Duke of Omnium
74 'I am disgraced and shamed'
75 The Great Wharton Alliance
76 Who Will it Be?
77 The Duchess in Manchester Square
78 The New Ministry
79 The Wharton Wedding
80 The Last Meeting at Matching
The Prime Minister
VOLUME I
CHAPTER 1
FERDINAND LOPEZ.
It is a certainty of service to a man to know who were his
grandfathers and who were his grandmothers if he entertain an
ambition to move in the upper circles of society, and also of
service to be able to speak of them as of persons who were
themselves somebodies in their time. No doubt we all entertain
great respect for those who by their own energies have raised
themselves in the world; and when we hear that the son of a
washerwoman has become Lord Chancellor or Archbishop of
Canterbury we do, theoretically and abstractedly, feel a higher
reverence for such self-made magnate than for one who has been as
it were born into forensic or ecclesiastical purple. But not the
less must the offspring of the washerwoman have had very much
trouble on the subject of his birth, unless he has been, when
young as well as when old, a very great man indeed. After the
goal has been absolutely reached, and the honour and the titles
and the wealth actually won, a man may talk with some humour,
even with some affection, of the maternal tub;--but while the
struggle is going on, with the conviction strong upon the
struggler that he cannot be altogether successful unless he be
esteemed a gentleman, not to be ashamed, not to conceal the old
family circumstances, not at any rate to be silent, is difficult.
And the difficulty is certainly not less if fortunate
circumstances rather than hard work and intrinsic merit have
raised above his natural place an aspirant to high social
position. Can it be expected that such a one when dining with a
duchess shall speak of his father's small shop, or bring into the
light of day his grandfather's cobbler's awl? And yet it is so
difficult to be altogether silent! It may not be necessary for
any of us to be always talking of our own parentage. We may be
generally reticent as to our uncles and aunts, and may drop even
our brothers and sisters in our ordinary conversation. But if a
man never mentions his belongings among those with whom he lives,
he becomes mysterious, and almost open to suspicion. It begins
to be known that nobody knows anything of such a man, and even
friends become afraid. It is certainly convenient to be able to
allude, if it be but once in a year, to some blood relation.
Ferdinand Lopez, who in other respects had much in his
circumstances on which to congratulate himself, suffered trouble
in his mind respecting his ancestors such as I have endeavoured
to describe. He did not know very much himself, but what little
he did know he kept altogether to himself. He had no father or
mother, no uncle, aunt, brother or sister, no cousin even whom he
could mention in a cursory way to his dearest friend. He
suffered no doubt;--but with Spartan consistency he so hid his
trouble from the world that no one knew that he suffered. Those
with whom he lived, and who speculated often and wondered much as
to who he was never dreamed that the silent man's reticence was a
burden to himself. At no special conjuncture of his life, at no
period which could be marked with the finger of the observer, did
he glaringly abstain from any statement which at the moment might
be natural. He never hesitated, blushed, or palpably laboured at
concealment; but the fact remained that though a great many men
and not a few women knew Ferdinand Lopez very well, none of them
knew whence he had come, or what was his family.
He was a man, however, naturally reticent, who never alluded to
his own affairs unless in pursuit of some object the way to which
was clear before his eyes. Silence therefore on a matter which
is common in the mouths of most men was less difficult to him
than to another, and the result less embarrassing. Dear old
Jones, who tells his friends at the club of every pound that he
loses or wins at the races, who boasts of Mary's favours and
mourns over Lucy's coldness almost in public, who issues
bulletins on the state of his purse, his stomach, his stable, and
his debts, could not with any amount of care keep from us the
fact that his father was an attorney's clerk, and made his first
money by discounting small bills. Everybody knows it, and Jones,
who like popularity, grieves at the unfortunate publicity. But
Jones is relieved from a burden which would have broken his poor
shoulders, and which even Ferdinand Lopez, who is a strong man,
often finds it hard to bear without wincing.
It was admitted on all sides that Ferdinand Lopez was a
'gentleman'. Johnson says that any other derivation of this
difficult word than that which causes it to signify 'a man of
ancestry' is whimsical. There are many who, in defining the term
for their own use, still adhere to Johnson's dictum;--but they
adhere to it with certain unexpressed allowances for possible
exceptions. The chances are very much in favour of the well-born
man, but exceptions may exist. It was not generally believed
that Ferdinand Lopez was well born;--but he was a gentleman.
And this most precious rank was acceded to him although he was
employed,--or at least had been employed,--on business which
does not of itself give such a warrant of position as is supposed
to be afforded by the bar and the church, by the military
services and by physic. He had been on the Stock Exchange, and
still in some manner, not clearly understood by his friends, did
business in the City.
At the time with which we are now concerned Ferdinand Lopez was
thirty-three years old, and as he had begun life early he had
been long before the world. It was known of him that he had been
at a good English private school, and it was reported, on the
solitary evidence of one of who had been there as his
schoolfellow, that a rumour was current in the school that his
school bills were paid by an old gentleman who was not related to
him. Thence, at the age of seventeen, he had been sent to a
German university, and at the age of twenty-one had appeared in
London, in a stockbroker's office, where he was soon known as an
accomplished linguist, and as a very clever fellow,--precocious,
not given to many pleasures, apt for work, but considered hardly
trustworthy by employers, not as being dishonest, but as having a
taste for being a master rather than a servant. Indeed his
period of servitude was very short. It was not in his nature to
be active on behalf of others. He was soon active for himself,
and at one time it was supposed that he was making a fortune.
Then it was known that he had left his regular business, and it
was supposed that he had lost all that he had ever made or had
ever possessed. But nobody, not even his own bankers, or his own
lawyer,--not even the old woman who looked after his linen,--
ever really knew the state of his affairs.
He was certainly a handsome man,--his beauty being of a sort
which men are apt to deny and women to admit lavishly. He was
nearly six feet tall, very dark and very thin, with regular well-
cut features, indicating little to the physiognomist unless it be
the great gift of self-possession. His hair was cut short, and
he wore no beard beyond an absolutely black moustache. His teeth
were perfect, in form and in whiteness,--a characteristic which
though it may be a valued item in a general catalogue of personal
attraction, does not generally recommend a man to the unconscious
judgment of his acquaintance. But about the mouth and chin of
this man there was a something of a softness, perhaps in the play
of his lips, perhaps in the dimple, which in some degree lessened
the feeling of hardness which was produced by the square brow and
bold, unflinching, combative eyes. They who knew him and like
him were reconciled by the lower face. The greater number who
knew him and did not like him, felt and resented,--even though
in nine cases out of ten they might, express no resentment even
to themselves,--the pugnacity of his steady glance.
For he was essentially one of those men who are always, in the
inner workings of their minds, defending themselves and attacking
others. He could not give a penny to a woman at a crossing
without a look which argued at full length her injustice in
making her demand, and his freedom from all liability let him
walk the crossing as often as he might. He could not seat
himself in a railway carriage without a lesson to his opposite
neighbour that in all the mutual affairs of travelling,
arrangement of feet, disposition of bags, and opening of windows,
it would be that neighbour's duty to submit and his to exact. It
was, however, for the spirit rather than for the thing itself
that he combatted. The woman with the broom got her penny. The
opposite gentleman when once by a glance he had expressed
submission was allowed his own way with the legs and with the
window. I would not say that Ferdinand Lopez was prone to do
ill-natured things; but he was imperious, and he had learned to
carry his empire in his eye.
The reader must submit to be told one or two further and still
smaller details respecting the man, and then the man shall be
allowed to make his own way. No one of those around him knew how
much care he took to dress himself well, or how careful he was
that no one should know it. His very tailor regarded him as
being simply extravagant in the number of his coats and trousers,
and his friends looked upon him as one of those fortunate beings
to whose nature belongs a facility of being well dressed, or
almost an impossibility of being ill dressed. We all know the
man,--a little man generally, who moves seldom and softly,--who
looks always as though he had just been sent home in a bandbox.
Ferdinand Lopez was not a little man, and moved freely enough;
but never, at any moment,--going into the city or coming out of
it, on horseback or on foot, at home over his book or after the
mazes of the dance,--was he dressed otherwise than with perfect
care. Money and time did it, but folk thought that it grew with
him, as did his hair and his nails. And he always rode a horse
which charmed good judges of what a park nag should be;--not a
prancing, restless, giggling, sideway-going, useless garran, but
an animal well made, well bitted, with perfect paces, on whom a
rider if it pleased him could be as quiet as a statue in a
monument. It often did please Ferdinand Lopez to be quiet on
horseback; and yet he did not look like a statue, for it was
acknowledged through all London that he was a good horseman. He
lived luxuriously too,--though whether at his ease or not nobody
knew,--for he kept a brougham of his own, and during the hunting
season, he had two horses down at Leighton. There had once been
a belief abroad that he was ruined, but they who interest
themselves in such matters had found out,--or at any rate
believed that they had found out,--that he paid his tailor
regularly: and now there prevailed an opinion that Ferdinand
Lopez was a monied man.
It was known to some few that he occupied rooms in a flat at
Westminster,--but to very few exactly where the rooms were
situate. Among all his friends no one was known to have entered
them. In a moderate way he was given to hospitality,--that is
to infrequent but when the occasion came, to graceful
hospitality. Some club, however, or tavern perhaps, in the
summer, some river bank would be chosen as the scene of these
festivities. To a few,--if, as suggested, amidst summer flowers
on the water's edge to men and women mixed,--he would be a
courtly and efficient host; for he had the rare gift of doing
such things well.
Hunting was over, and the east wind was still blowing, and a
great portion of the London world was out of town taking its
Easter holiday, when on an unpleasant morning, Ferdinand Lopez
travelled into the city by the Metropolitan railway from
Westminster Bridge. It was his custom to go thither when he did
go,--not daily like a man of business, but as chance might
require, like a capitalist or a man of pleasure,--in his own
brougham. But on this occasion he walked down the river side,
and then walked from the Mansion House into a dingy little court
called Little Tankard Yard, near the Bank of England, and going
through a narrow dark long passage got into a little office at
the back of a building, in which there sat at a desk a greasy
gentleman with a new hat on one side of his head, who might
perhaps be about forty years old. The place was very dark, and
the man was turning over the leaves of a ledger. A stranger to
city ways might probably have said that he was idle, but he was
no doubt filling his mind with that erudition which would enable
him to earn his bread. On the other side of the desk there was a
little boy copying letters. These were Mr Sextus Parker,--
commonly called Sexty Parker,--his clerk. Mr Parker was a
gentleman very well known and at the present moment favourably
esteemed on the Stock Exchange. 'What, Lopez!' said he.
'Uncommon glad to see you. What can I do for you?'
'Just come inside,--will you?' said Lopez. Now within Mr
Parker's very small office there was a smaller office, in which
there were a safe, a small rickety Pembroke table, two chairs,
and an old washing-stand with a tumbled towel. Lopez led the way
into this sanctum as though he knew the place well, and Sexty
Parker followed him.
'Beastly day, isn't it?' said Sexty.
'Yes,--a nasty east wind.'
'Cutting one in two, with a hot sun at the same time. One ought
to hybernate at this time of the year.'
'Then why don't you hybernate?' said Lopez.
'Business is too good. That's about it. A man has to stick to
it when it does come. Everybody can't do like you;--give up
regular work, and make a better thing of an hour now and an hour
then, just as it pleases you. I shouldn't dare go in for that
kind of thing.
'I don't suppose you or any one else know what I go in for,' said
Lopez, with a look that indicated offence.
'Nor don't care,' said Sexty;--'only hope it's something good,
for your sake.' Sexty Parker had known Mr Lopez well, now for
some years, and being an overbearing man himself,--somewhat even
of a bully if the truth be spoken,--and by no means apt to give
way unless hard pressed, had often tried his 'hand' on his
friend, as he himself would have said. But I doubt whether he
could remember any instance in which he could congratulate
himself on success. He was trying his hand again now, but did it
with a faltering voice, having caught a glance of his friend's
eye.
'I dare say not,' said Lopez. Then he continued without changing
his voice or the nature of his eye. 'I'll tell you what I want
you to do now. I want your name to this bill for three months.'
Sexty Parker opened his mouth and his eyes, and took the bit of
paper that was tendered to him. It was a promissory note for 750
pounds, which, if signed by him, would at the end of the
specified period make him liable for that sum were it not
otherwise paid. His friend Mr Lopez was indeed applying to him
for the assistance of his name in raising a loan to the amount of
the sum named. This was a kind of favour which a man should ask
almost on his knees,--and which, if so asked, Mr Sextus Parker
would certainly refuse. And here was Ferdinand Lopez asking it,
who, Sextus Parker had latterly regarded as an opulent man,--and
asking it not at all on his knees, but, as one might say, at the
muzzle of a pistol. 'Accommodation bill!' said Sexty. 'Why, you
ain't hard up, are you?'
'I'm not going just at present to tell you much about my affairs,
and yet I expect you to do what I ask you. I don't suppose you
doubt my ability to raise 750 pounds.'
'Oh, dear, no,' said Sexty, who had been looked at and who had not
borne the inspection well.
'And I don't suppose you would refuse me even if I were hard up,
as you call it.' There had been affairs before between the two
men in which Lopez had probably been the stronger, and the memory
of them, added to the inspection which was still going on, was
heavy upon poor Sexty.
'Oh, dear, no;--I wasn't thinking of refusing, I suppose a
fellow may be a little surprised at such a thing.'
'I don't know why you should be surprised, as such things are
very common. I happen to have taken a share in a loan a little
beyond my immediate means, and therefore want a few hundreds.
There is no one I can ask with a better grace than you. If you
ain't--afraid about it, just sign it.'
'Oh, I ain't afraid,' said Sexty, taking his pen and writing his
name across the bill. But even before the signature was
finished, when his eye was taken away from the face of his
companion and fixed upon the disagreeable piece of paper beneath
his hand, he repented of what he was doing. He almost arrested
his signature half-way. He did hesitate, but had not pluck
enough to stop his hand. 'It does seem to be an odd
transaction all the same,' he said as he leaned back in his
chair.
'It's the commonest thing in the world,' said Lopez picking up
the bill in a leisurely way, folding it and putting it into his
pocket-book. 'Have our names never been together on a bit of
paper before?'
'When we both had something to make by it.'
'You've nothing to make and nothing to lose by this. Good day
and many thanks,--though I don't think so much of the affair as
you seem to do.' Then Ferdinand Lopez took his departure, and
Sexty Parker was left alone in bewilderment.
'By George,--that's queer,' he said to himself. 'Who'd have
thought of Lopez being hard up for a few hundred pounds? But it
must be all right. He wouldn't have come in that fashion, if it
hadn't been all right. I oughtn't to have done it though! A man
ought never to do that kind of thing,--never,--never!' And Mr
Sextus Parker was much discontented with himself, so that when he
got home that evening to the wife of his bosom and his little
family at Ponders End, he by no means made himself agreeable to
them. For that sum of 750 pounds sat upon his bosom as he ate
his supper, and lay upon his chest as he slept,--like a
nightmare.
CHAPTER 2
EVERETT WHARTON.
On that same day Lopez dined with his friend Everett Wharton at a
new club, called the Progress, of which they were both members.
The Progress was certainly a new club, having as yet been open
hardly more than three years; but still it was old enough to have
seen many of the hopes of its early youth become dim with age and
inaction. For the Progress had intended to do great things for
the Liberal Party,--or rather for political liberality in
general,--and had in truth done little or nothing. It had been
got up with considerable enthusiasm, and for a while certain
fiery politicians had believed that through the instrumentality
of this institution men of genius and spirit, and natural power,
but without wealth,--meaning always themselves,--would be
supplied with sure seats in Parliament and a probably share in
the Government. But no such results had been achieved. There
had been a want of something,--some deficiency felt but not yet
defined,--which had hitherto been fatal. The young men said it
was because no old stager who knew the way of pulling the wires
would come forward and put the club in the proper groove. The
old men said it was because the young men were pretentious
puppies. It was, however, not to be doubted that the party of
Progress had become slack, and that the Liberal politicians of
the country, although a special new club had been opened for the
furtherance of their views, were not at present making much way.
'What we want is organization,' said one of the leading young
men. But the organization was not as yet forthcoming.
The club, nevertheless, went on its way, like other clubs, and
men dined and smoked and played billiards and pretended to read.
Some few energetic members still hoped that a good day would come
in which their grand ideas might be realized,--but as regarded
the members generally, they were content to eat and drink and
play billiards. It was a fairly good club,--with a sprinkling
of Liberal lordlings, a couple of dozen of members of Parliament
who had been made to believe that they would neglect their party
duties unless they paid their money, and the usual assortment of
barristers, attorneys, city merchants, and idle men. It was good
enough, at any rate, for Ferdinand Lopez, who was particular
about his dinner, and had an opinion of his own about wines. He
had been heard to assert that, for real quiet comfort, there was
not a club in London equal to it, but his hearers were not aware
that in the past days he had been black-balled at the T and the
G. These were accidents which Lopez had a gift of keeping in
the background. His present companion, Everett Wharton, had, as
well himself, been an original member;--and Wharton had been one
of those who had hoped to find in the club a stepping-stone to
high political life, and who now talked often with idle energy of
the need for organization.
'For myself,' said Lopez, 'I can conceive no vainer object of
ambition than a seat in the British Parliament. What does any
man gain by it? The few are successful work very hard for little
pay and no thanks,--or nearly equally hard for no pay and as
little thanks. The many who fail sit idly for hours, undergoing
the weary task of listening to platitudes, and enjoy in return
the now absolutely valueless privilege of having MP written on
their letters.'
'Somebody must make the laws for the country.'
'I don't see the necessity. I think the country would do
uncommonly well if it were to know that no old law would be
altered or new law made for the next twenty years.'
'You wouldn't have repealed the corn laws?'
'There are no corn laws to repeal now.'
'Nor modify the income tax?'
'I would modify nothing. But at any rate, whether laws are to be
altered or to be left, it is a comfort to me that I need not put
my finger into that pie. There is one benefit indeed in being in
the House.'
'You can't be arrested.'
'Well;--that, as far as it goes, and one other. It assists a
man in getting a seat as the director of certain companies.
People are still such asses that they trust a Board of Directors
made up of members of Parliament, and therefore of course members
are made welcome. But if you want to get into the House, why
don't you arrange it with your father, instead of waiting for
what the club may do for you?'
'My father wouldn't pay a shilling for such a purpose. He was
never in the House himself.'
'And therefore despises it.'
'A little of that, perhaps. No man ever worked harder than he
did, or, in his way, more successfully; and having seen one after
another of his juniors become members of Parliament, while he
stuck to the attorneys, there is perhaps a little jealousy about
it.'
'From what I see of the way you live at home, I should think your
father would do anything for you,--with proper management.
There is no doubt, I suppose, that he could afford it?'
'My father never in his life said anything to me about his own
money affairs though he says a great deal about mine. No man
ever was closer than my father. But I believe he could afford
almost anything.'
'I wish I had such a father,' said Ferdinand Lopez. 'I think
that I should succeed in ascertaining the extent of his
capabilities, and in making some use of them too.'
Wharton nearly asked his friend,--almost summoned courage to ask
him,--whether his father had done much for him. They were very
intimate; and on one subject, in which Lopez was much interested,
their confidence had been very close. But the younger and weaker
man of the two could not quite bring himself to the point of
making an inquiry which he thought would be disagreeable. Lopez
had never before, in all their intercourse, hinted at the
possibility of his having or having had filial aspirations. He
had been as though he had been created self-sufficient,
independent of mother's milk or father's money. Now the question
might have been asked almost naturally. But it was not asked.
Everett Wharton was a trouble to his father,--but not an
agonizing trouble, as are some sons. His faults were not of a
nature to rob his father's cup of all its sweetness and to bring
grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. Old Wharton had never had
to ask himself whether he should now, at length, let his son fall
into the lowest abysses, or whether he should yet again struggle
to put him on his legs, again forgive him, again pay his debts,
again endeavour to forget dishonour, and place it all to the
score of thoughtless youth. Had it been so, I think that, if not
on the first or second fall, certainly on the third, the young
man would have gone into the abyss, for Mr Wharton was a stern
man, and capable of coming to a clear conclusion on things that
were nearest and even dearest to himself. But Everett Wharton
had simply shown himself to be inefficient to earn his own bread.
He had never declined even to do this,--but had simply been
inefficient. He had not declared, either by words or by actions,
that as his father was a rich man, and as he was an only son, he
would therefore do nothing. But he had tried his hand thrice,
and in each case, after but short trial, had assured his father
and his friends that the thing had not suited him. Leaving
Oxford without a degree,--for reading of the schools did not
suit him,--he had gone into a banking-house, by no means as a
mere clerk, but with an expressed proposition from his father,
backed by the assent of a partner, that he should work his way up
to wealth and a great commercial position. But six months taught
him that banking was an 'abomination', and he at once went into a
course of reading with a barrister. He remained at this till he
was called,--for a man may be called with very little continuous
work. But after he was called the solitude of his chambers was
too much for him, and at twenty-five he found that the Stock
Exchange was the mart in the world for such talents and energies
as he possessed. What was the nature of his failure during the
year that he went into the city, was know only to himself and his
father,--unless Ferdinand Lopez knew something of it also. But
at six-and-twenty the Stock Exchange was also abandoned; and now,
at eight-and-twenty, Everett Wharton had discovered that a
parliamentary career was that for which nature and his special
genius had intended him. He had probably suggested this to his
father, and had met with some cold rebuff.
Everett Wharton was a good-looking, manly fellow, six feet high,
with broad shoulders with light hair, wearing a large silky bushy
beard, which made him look older than his years, who neither by
his speech nor by his appearance would ever be taken for a fool,
but who showed by the very actions of his body as well as by the
play of his face, that he lacked firmness of purpose. He
certainly was no fool. He had read much, and though he generally
forgot what he read, there were left with him from his readings
certain nebulous lights, begotten by other men's thinking, which
enabled him to talk on most subjects. It cannot be said of him
that he did much thinking for himself;--but he thought what he
thought. He believed of himself that he had gone rather deep
into politics, and that he was entitled to call many statesmen
asses because they did not see the things which he saw. He had
the great question of labour, and all that refers to unions,
strikes, and lock-outs, quite at his fingers' ends. He knew how
the Church of England should be disestablished and recomposed.
He was quite clear on questions of finance, and saw to a 't' how
progress should be made towards communism, so that no violence
should disturb that progress, and that in due course of centuries
all desire for personal property should be conquered and
annihilated by a philanthropy so general as hardly be accounted a
virtue. In the meantime he could never contrive to pay his
tailor's bill regularly out of the allowance of 400 pounds a year
which his father made him, and was always dreaming of the
comforts of a handsome income.
He was a popular man certainly,--very popular with women, to
whom he was always courteous, and generally liked by men, to whom
he was genial and good-natured. Though he was not himself aware
of the fact, he was very dear to his father, who in his own
silent way almost admired and certainly liked the openness and
guileless freedom of a character which was very opposite to his
own. The father, though he had never said a word to flatter the
son, did in truth give his offspring credit for greater talent
than he possessed, and, even when appearing to scorn them, would
listen to the young man's diatribes almost with satisfaction.
And Everett was very dear also to a sister, who was the only
other living member of this branch of the Wharton family. Much
will be said of her in these pages, and it is hoped that the
reader may take an interest in her fate. But here, in speaking
of the brother, it may suffice to say, that the sister, who was
endowed with infinitely finer gifts than his, did give credit to
the somewhat pretentious claims of her less noble brother.
Indeed it had been perhaps a misfortune with Everett Wharton that
some people had believed in him,--and a further misfortune that
some others had thought it worth their while to pretend to
believe in him. Among the latter might probably be reckoned the
friend with whom he was now dining at the Progress. A man may
flatter another, as Lopez occasionally did flatter Wharton,
without preconcerted falsehood. It suits one man to be well with
another, and the one learns gradually and perhaps unconsciously
the way to take advantage of the foibles of the other. Now it
was most material to Lopez that he should stand well with all the
members of the Wharton family, as he aspired to the hand of the
daughter of the house. Of her regard he already thought himself
nearly sure. Of the father's sanction to such a marriage he had
reason to be almost more than doubtful. But the brother was his
friend,--and in such circumstances a man is almost justified in
flattering a brother.
'I'll tell you what it is, Lopez,' said Wharton, as they strolled
out of the club together, a little after ten o'clock, 'the men of
the present day won't give themselves the trouble to occupy their
minds with matters which have, or should have, real interest.
Pope knew all about when he said that "The proper study of
mankind is man." But people don't read Pope now, or if they do
they don't take the trouble to understand him.'
'Men are too busy making money, my dear fellow.'
'That's just it. Money's a very nice thing.'
'Very nice,' said Lopez.
'But the search after it is debasing. If a man could make money
for four, or six, or even eight hours a day, and then wash his
mind of the pursuit, as a clerk in an office washes the copies
and ledgers out of his mind, then--'
'He would never make money in that way--and keep it.'
'And therefore the whole thing is debasing. A man ceases to care
for the great interests of the world, or even to be aware of
their existence, when his whole soul is in Spanish bonds. They
wanted to make a banker of me, but I found that it would kill
me.'
'It would kill me, I think if I had to confine myself to Spanish
bonds.'
'You know what I mean. You at any rate understand me, though I
fear you are too far gone to abandon the idea of making a
fortune.'
'I would abandon it to-morrow if I could come into a fortune
ready made. A man must at any rate eat.'
'Yes,--he must eat. But I am not quite sure,' said Wharton
thoughtfully, 'that he need think about what he eats.'
'Unless the beef is sent up without horse radish!' It had
happened that when the two men sat down to their dinner the
insufficient quantity of that vegetable supplied by the steward
of the club had been all consumed, and Wharton had complained of
the grievance.
'A man has a right to that for which he has paid,' said Wharton,
with mock solemnity, 'and if he passes over laches of that nature
without observation, he does an injury to humanity at large. I'm
not going to be caught in a trap, you know, because I like horse
radish with my beef. Well, I can't go farther out of my way, as
I have a deal of reading to do before I court my Morpheus. If
you'll take my advice, you'll go straight to the governor.
Whatever Emily may feel, I don't think she'll say much to
encourage you unless you go about it after that fashion. She has
prim notions of her own, which perhaps are not after all so much
amiss when a man wants to marry a girl.'
'God forbid that I should think that anything about your sister
was amiss!'
'I don't think there is much myself. Women are generally
superficial,--but some are honestly superficial and some
dishonestly. Emily at any rate is honest.'
'Stop half a moment.' Then they sauntered arm in arm down the
broad pavement leading from Pall Mall to the Duke of York's
column. 'I wish I could make out your father more clearly. He
is always civil to me, but he has a cold way of looking at me
which makes me think I am not in his good books.'
'He is like that to everybody.'
'I never seem to get beyond the skin with him. You must have
heard him speak of me in my absence.'
'He never says very much about anybody.'
'But a word would let me know how the land lies. You know me
well enough to be aware that I am the last man to be curious as
to what others think of me. Indeed I do not care about it as
much as a man should do. I am utterly indifferent to the opinion
of the world at large, and would never object to the company of a
pleasant person because the pleasant person abused me behind my
back. What I value is the pleasantness of the man, and not the
liking or disliking for myself. But here the dearest aim of my
life is concerned, and I might be guided either this way or that,
or to my great advantage, by knowing whether I stand well or ill
with him.'
'You have dined three times within the last three months in
Manchester Square, and I don't know any other man,--certainly no
other young man,--who has had such strong proof of intimacy from
my father.'
'Yes, and I know my advantages. But I have been there as your
friend, not his.'
'He doesn't care twopence about my friends. I wanted to give
Charlie Skate a dinner, but my father wouldn't have him at any
price.'
'Charlie Skate is out at elbows, and bets at billiards. I am
respectable,--or at any rate your father thinks so. Your father
is more anxious about you than you are aware of, and wishes to
make his house pleasant to you as long as he can do so to your
advantage. As far as you are concerned he rather approves of me,
fancying that my turn for making money is stronger than my turn
for spending it. Nevertheless, he looks upon me as a friend of
yours rather than his own. Though he has given me three dinners
in three months,--and I own the greatness of his hospitality,--
I don't suppose he ever said a word in my favour. I wish I knew
what he does say.'
'He says he knows nothing about you.'
'Oh;--that's it, is it? Then he can know no harm. When next he
says so ask him how many of the men who dine at his house he can
say as much. Good night;--I won't keep you any longer. But I
can tell you this;--if between us we can manage to handle him
rightly, you may get your seat in Parliament and I may get my
wife;--that is, of course, if she will have me.'
Then they parted, but Lopez remained in the pathway, walking up
and down by the side of the old military club, thinking of
things. He certainly knew his friend, the younger Wharton
intimately, appreciating the man's good qualities, and being
fully aware of the man's weakness. By his questions he had
extracted quite enough to assure himself that Emily's father
would be adverse to his proposition. He had not felt much doubt
before, but now he was certain. 'He doesn't know much about me,'
he said, musing to himself. 'Well, no; he doesn't;--and there
isn't very much that I can tell him. Of course he's wise,--as
wisdom goes. But then, wise men do do foolish things at
intervals. The discreetest of city bankers are talked out of
their money; the most scrupulous of matrons are talked out of
their virtue; the most experienced of statesmen are talked out of
their principles. And who can really calculate chances? Men who
lead forlorn hopes generally push through without being wounded;
--and the fifth or sixth heir comes to a title.' So much he
said, palpably, though to himself with his inner voice. Then--
impalpably, with no even inner voice,--he asked himself what
chance he might have of prevailing with the girl herself; and he
almost ventured to tell himself that in that direction, he need
not despair.
In very truth he loved the girl and reverenced her, believing her
to be better and higher and nobler than other human beings,--as
a man does when he is in love; and so believing, he had those
doubts as to his own success which such reverence produces.
CHAPTER 3
MR ABEL WHARTON Q.C.
Lopez was not a man to let grass grow under his feet when he had
anything to do. When he was tired of walking backwards and
forwards over the same bit of pavement, subject all the while to
a cold east wind, he went home and thought of the same matter
while he lay in bed. Even were he to get the girl's assurances
of love, without her father's consent he might find himself
farther from his object than ever. Mr Wharton was a man of old
fashions, who would think himself ill-used and his daughter ill-
used, and who would think also that a general offence would have
been committed against good social manners, if his daughter were
to be asked for her hand without his previous consent. Should he
absolutely refuse,--why then the battle, though it would be a
desperate battle, might perhaps be fought with other strategy;
but, giving to the matter his best consideration, Lopez thought
it expedient to go at once to the father. In doing this he would
have no silly tremors. Whatever he might feel in speaking to the
girl, he had sufficient self-confidence to be able to ask the
father, if not with assurance, at any rate without trepidation.
It was, he thought, probable that the father, at the first
attack, would neither altogether accede, or altogether refuse.
The disposition of the man was averse to the probability of an
absolute reply at the first moment. The lover imagined that it
might be possible for him to take advantage of the period of
doubt which would be created.
Mr Wharton was and had for a great many years been a barrister
practising in the Equity Courts,--or rather in one Equity Court,
for throughout a life's work, now extending to nearly fifty
years, he had hardly ever gone out of the single Vice-
Chancellor's Court which was much better known by Mr Wharton's
name than by that of the less eminent judge who now sat there.
His had been a very peculiar, a very toilsome, but yet probably a
very satisfactory life. He had begun his practice early, and had
worked in a stuff gown till he was nearly sixty. At that time,
he had amassed a large fortune, mainly from his profession, but
partly also by the careful use of his own small patrimony and by
his wife's money. Men knew that he was rich, but no one knew the
extent of his wealth. When he submitted to take a silk gown, he
declared among his friends that he did so as a step preparatory
to his retirement. The altered method of work would not suit him
at his age, nor,--as he said,--would it be profitable. He
would take his silk, as a honour for his declining years, so that
he might become a bencher at his Inn. But he had now been
working for the last twelve or fourteen years with his silk gown,
--almost as hard as in younger days, and with pecuniary results
almost as serviceable; and though from month to month he declared
his intention of taking no fresh briefs, and though he did now
occasionally refuse work, still he was there with his mind as
clear as ever, and with his body apparently as little affected by
fatigue.
Mr Wharton had not married till he was forty, and his wife had
now been two years dead. He had had six children,--of whom but
two were now left to make a household for his old age. He had
been nearly fifty years when his youngest daughter was born, and
was therefore now an old father of a young child. But he was one
of those men who, as in youth they are never very young, so in
age are they never very old. He could still ride his cob in the
park jauntily; and did so carefully every morning in his life,
after an early cup of tea and before his breakfast. And he could
walk home from his chambers every day, and on Sundays could to
the round of the parks on foot. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and
Saturdays, he dined at that old law club, the Eldon, and played
whist after dinner till twelve o'clock. This was the great
dissipation and, I think, the chief charm of his life. In the
middle of August he and his daughter usually went for a month to
Wharton Hall in Hertfordshire, the seat of his cousin Sir Alured
Wharton;--and this was the one duty of his life which was a
burden to him. But he had been made to believe that it was
essential to his health, and to his wife's, and then to his
girl's, health, that he should every summer leave town for a
time,--and where else was there to go? Sir Alured was a
relation and a gentleman. Emily liked Wharton Hall. It was the
proper thing. He hated Wharton Hall, but then he did not know
any place out of London that he would not hate worse. He had
once been induced to go up the Rhine; but had never repeated the
experiment of foreign travel. Emily sometimes went abroad with
her cousins during which periods it was supposed that the old
lawyer spent a good deal of his time at the Eldon. He was a
spare, thin, strongly made man, with spare light brown hair,
hardly yet grizzled, with small grey whiskers, clear eyes, bushy
eyebrows, with a long ugly nose, on which young barristers had
been heard to declare that you might hang a small kettle, and
with considerable vehemence of talk when he was opposed in
argument. For, with all his well-known coolness of temper, Mr
Wharton could become very hot in an argument, when the nature of
the case in hand required heat. On one subject all who knew him
were agreed. He was a thorough lawyer. Many doubted his
eloquence, and some declared that he had known well the extent of
his own powers in abstaining from seeking the higher honours of
his profession; but no one doubted his law. He had once written
a book,--on the mortgage of stocks in trade; but that had been
in early life, and he had never since dabbled in literature.
He was certainly a man of whom men were generally afraid. At the
whist-table no one would venture to scold him. In the court no
one ever contradicted him. In his own house, though he was very
quiet, the servants dreaded to offend him, and were attentive to
his slightest behests. When he condescended to ride with any
acquaintance in the park, it was always acknowledged that old
Wharton was to regulate the pace. His name was Abel, and all his
life he had been known as able Abe,--a silent, far-seeing,
close-fisted, just old man, who, was not, however, by any means
deficient in sympathy either with the sufferings or with the joys
of humanity.
It was Easter time, and the courts were not sitting, but Mr
Wharton was in his chamber as a matter of course at ten o'clock.
He knew no real homely comforts elsewhere,--unless at the whist-
table at the Eldon. He ate and drank and slept in his own house
in Manchester Square, but he could hardly be said to live there.
It was not there that his mind was awake, and the powers of the
man were exercised. When he came up from the dining-room to join
his daughter after dinner, he would get her to sing him a song,
and would then seat himself with a book. But he never read in
his own house, invariably falling into a sweet and placid
slumber, from which he was never disturbed till his daughter
kissed him as she went to bed. Then he would walk about the room
and look at his watch, and shuffle uneasily through half an hour,
till his conscience allowed him to take himself to his chamber.
He was a man of no pursuits in his own house. But from ten in
the morning til five, or often six, in the evening, his mind was
active in some work. It was not now all law, as it used to be.
In the drawer of the old piece of furniture which stood just at
the right hand of his own arm-chair there were various books
hidden away, which he was sometimes ashamed to have seen by his
clients,--poetry and novels, and even fairy tales. For there
was nothing Mr Wharton could not read in his chambers, though
there was nothing that he could read in his own house. He had a
large pleasant room in which to sit, looking out from the ground
floor of Stone Buildings on to the gardens belonging to the Inn,
--and here, in the centre of the metropolis, but in perfect quiet
as far as the outside world was concerned, he had lived and still
lived his life.
At about noon on the day following that on which Lopez had made
his sudden swoop on Mr Parker and had then dined with Everett
Wharton, he called at Stone Buildings, and was shown into the
lawyer's room. His quick eye at once discovered the book which
Mr Wharton half hid away, and saw upon it Mr Mudie's suspicious
ticket. Barristers certainly never get their law books from
Mudie, and Lopez at once knew that his hoped-for father-in-law
had been reading a novel. He had not suspected such weakness,
but argued well from it for the business he had in hand. There
must be a soft spot to be found about the heart of an old lawyer
who spent his mornings in such occupation. 'How do you do, sir?'
said Mr Wharton rising from his seat. 'I hope you are well,
sir.' Though he had been reading a novel his tone and manner
were very cold. Lopez had never been in Stone Buildings before,
and was not quite sure that he might not have committed some
offence in coming there. 'Take a seat, Mr Lopez. Is there
anything I can do for you in my way?'
There was a great deal that could be done 'in his way' as father,
--but how was it to be introduced and the case made clear? Lopez
did not know whether the old man had as yet ever suspected such a
feeling as that which he now intended to declare. He had been
intimate at the house at Manchester Square, and had certainly
ingratiated himself very closely with a certain Mrs Roby, who had
been Mr Wharton's sister and constant companion, who lived in
Berkeley Street, close round the corner from Manchester Square,
and spent very much of her time with Emily Wharton. They were
together daily, as though Mrs Roby had assumed the part of a
second mother, and Lopez was well aware that Mrs Roby knew of his
love. If there was a real confidence between Mrs Roby and the
old man, the old lawyer knew about it also;--but as to that
Lopez felt that he was in the dark.
The task of speaking to an old father is not unpleasant when the
lover knows that he has been smiled upon, and, in fact, approved
for the last six months. He is going to be patted on the back,
and made much of, and received in the family. He is to be told
that his Mary or his Augusta has been the best daughter in the
world, and will therefore certainly be the best wife, and he
himself will probably on that special occasion be spoken of with
unqualified praise,--and all will be pleasant. But the subject
is one very difficult to broach when no previous light has been
thrown on it. Ferdinand Lopez, however, was not the man to stand
shivering on the brink when a plunge was necessary,--and
therefore he made his plunge. 'Mr Wharton, I have taken the
liberty to call upon you, because I want to speak to you about
your daughter.'
'About my daughter!' The old man's surprise was quite genuine.
Of course when he had given himself a moment to think, he knew
what must be the nature of his visitor's communication. But up
to that moment he had never mixed his daughter and Ferdinand
Lopez in his thoughts together. And now, the idea having come
upon him, he looked at the aspirant with severe and unpleasant
eyes. It was manifest to the aspirant that the first flash of
the thing was painful to the father.
'Yes, sir. I know how great is my presumption. But, yet having
ventured, I will hardly say to entertain any hope, but to have
come to such a state that I can only by happy by hoping, I have
thought it best to come to you at once.'
'Does she know anything of this?'
'Of my visit to you? Nothing.'
'Of your intentions;--of your suit generally? Am I to
understand that this has any sanction from her?'
'None at all.'
'Have you told her anything of it?'
'Not a word. I come to ask you for your permission to address
her.'
'You mean that she has no knowledge whatever of your, your
preference for her.'
'I cannot say that. It is hardly possible that I should have
learned to love her as I do without some consciousness on her
part that it is so.'
'What I mean is, without any beating about the bush,--have you
been making love to her?'
'Who is to say what making love consists, Mr Wharton?'
'D it, sir, a gentleman knows. A gentleman knows whether he
has been playing on a girl's feelings, and a gentleman, when he
is asked as I have asked you, will at any rate tell the truth. I
don't want any definitions. Have you been making love to her?'
'I think, Mr Wharton, that I have behaved like a gentleman; and
that you will acknowledge at least so much when you come to know
exactly what I have done and what I have not done. I have
endeavoured to commend myself to your daughter, but I have never
spoken a word of love to her.'
'Does Everett know of all this?'
'Yes.'
'And has he encouraged it?'
'He knows of it because he is my intimate friend. Whoever the
lady might have been, I should have told him. He is attached to
me, and would not I think, on his own account, object to call me
his brother. I spoke to him yesterday on the matter very
plainly, and he told me that I ought certainly to see you first.
I quite agreed with him, and therefore I am here. There has
certainly been nothing in his conduct to make you angry, and I do
not think that there has been anything in mine.'
There was a dignity of demeanour and a quiet assured courage
which had its effect upon the old lawyer. He felt that he could
not storm and talk in ambiguous language of what a 'gentleman'
would or would not do. He might disapprove of this man
altogether as a son-in-law,--and at the present moment he
thought he did,--but still the man was entitled to a civil
answer. How were lovers to approach the ladies of their love in
any manner more respectful than this? 'Mr Lopez,' he said, 'you
must forgive me if I say that you are comparatively a stranger to
us.'
'That is an accident which would easily be cured if your will in
that direction were as good as mine.'
'But, perhaps, it isn't. One has to be explicit in these
matters. A daughter's happiness is a very serious consideration;
--and some people, among whom I confess that I am one, consider
that like people should marry like. I should wish to see my
daughter marry,--not only in my own sphere, neither higher nor
lower,--but with someone of my own class.'
'I hardly know, Mr Wharton, whether that is intended to exclude
me.'
'Well,--to tell you the truth I know nothing about you. I don't
know who your father was,--whether he was an Englishman, whether
he was a Christian, whether he was a Protestant,--not even
whether he was a gentleman. These are questions which I should
not dream of asking under any other circumstances;--would be
matters with which I should have no possible concern, if you were
simply an acquaintance. But when you talk to a man about his
daughter--?'
'I acknowledge freely your right of inquiry.'
'And I know nothing of your means;--nothing whatever. I
understand that you live as a man of fortune, but I presume that
you earn your bread. I know nothing of the way in which you earn
it, nothing of the certainty or amount of your means.'
'Those things are of course matters for inquiry; but may I
presume that you have no objection which satisfactory answers to
such questions may not remove?'
'I shall never willingly give my daughter to anyone who is not
the son of an English gentleman. It may be a prejudice, but that
is my feeling.'
'My father was certainly not an English gentleman. He was a
Portuguese.' In admitting this, and subjecting himself at once
to one clearly-stated ground of objection,--the objection being
one which, though admitted, carried with it neither fault nor
disgrace,--Lopez felt that he had got a certain advantage. He
could not get over the fact that he was the son of a Portuguese
parent, but by admitting that openly he thought he might avoid
present discussion on matters which might, perhaps, be more
disagreeable, but to which he need not allude if the accident of
birth were to be taken by the father as settling the question.
'My mother was an English lady,' he added, 'but my father
certainly was not an Englishman. I never had the common
happiness of knowing either of them. I was an orphan before I
understood what it was to have a parent.'
This was said with a pathos, which for the moment stopped the
expression of any further harsh criticism from the lawyer. Mr
Wharton could not instantly repeat his objection to a parentage
which was matter for such melancholy reflections; but he felt at
the same time that as he had luckily landed himself on a positive
and undeniable ground of objection to a match which was
distasteful to him, it would be unwise for him to go to other
matters in which he might be less successful. By doing so, he
would seem to abandon the ground which he had already made good.
He thought it probable that the man might have an adequate
income, and yet he did not wish to welcome him as a son-in-law.
He thought it possible that the Portuguese father might be a
Portuguese nobleman, and therefore one whom he might be driven to
admit to have been some sort of gentleman;--but yet this man who
was now in his presence and whom he continued to scan with the
closest observation, was not what he called a gentleman. The
foreign blood was proved, and that would suffice. As he looked
at Lopez, he thought that he detected Jewish signs, but he was
afraid to make any allusions to religion, lest Lopez should
declare his ancestors had been noted as Christians since St James
first preached in the Peninsula.
'I was educated altogether in England,' continued Lopez, 'till I
was sent to a German university in the idea that the languages of
the Continent are not generally well learned in this country;--I
can never be sufficiently thankful to my guardian for doing so.'
'I dare say;--I dare say. French and German are very useful. I
have a prejudice of my own in favour of Greek and Latin.'
'But I rather fancy I picked up more Greek and Latin at Bonn than
I should have got here, had I stuck to nothing else.'
'I dare say;--I dare say. You may be an Admirable Crichton for
what I know.'
'I have not intended to make any boast, sir, but simply to
vindicate those who had the care of my education. If you have
no objection except that founded on my birth, which is an
accident--'
'When one man is a peer and another a ploughman, that is an
accident. One doesn't find fault with the ploughman, but one
doesn't ask him to dinner.'
'But my accident,' said Lopez smiling, 'is one which you would
hardly discover unless you were told. Had I called myself Talbot
you would not know but that I was as good an Englishman as
yourself.'
'A man of course may be taken in by falsehoods,' said the lawyer.
'If your have no other objection than that raised, I hope you
will allow me to visit in Manchester Square.'
'There may be ten thousand other objections, Mr Lopez, but I
really think that the one is enough. Of course I know nothing of
my daughter's feelings. I should imagine that the matter is as
strange to her as it is to me. But I cannot give you anything
like encouragement. If I am ever to have a son-in-law, I should
wish to have an English son-in-law. I do not even know what your
profession is.'
'I am engaged in foreign loans.'
'Very precarious I should think. A sort of gambling, isn't it?'
'It is the business by which many of the greatest mercantile
houses in the city have been made.'
'I dare say;--I dare say;--and by which they come to ruin. I
have the greatest respect in the world for mercantile enterprise,
and I have had as much to do as most men with mercantile
questions. But I ain't sure that I wish to marry my daughter in
the City. Of course it's all prejudice. I won't deny that on
general subjects I can give as much latitude as any man; but when
one's own heart is attacked--'
'Surely such a position as mine, Mr Wharton, is no attack!'
'In my sense it is. When a man proposes to assault and invade
the very kernel of another man's heart, to share with him, and
indeed to take from him, the very dearest of his possessions, to
become part and parcel with him either for infinite good or
infinite evil, then a man has a right to guard even his
prejudices as precious bulwarks.' Mr Wharton as he said this was
walking about the room with his hands in his trouser pockets. 'I
have always been for absolute toleration in matters of religion,
--have always advocated the admission of Roman Catholics and Jews
into Parliament, and even to the Bench. In ordinary life I never
question a man's religion. It is nothing to do with me whether
he believes in Mahomet, or has no belief at all. But when a man
comes to ask for my daughter--'
'I have always belonged to the Church of England,' said Ferdinand
Lopez.
'Lopez is at any rate a bad name to go to a Protestant church
with, and I don't want my daughter to bear it if I am very frank
with you, as in such a matter men ought to understand each other.
Personally I have liked you well enough, and have been glad to
see you at my house. Everett and you have seemed to be friends,
and I have had no objection to make. But marrying into a family
is a very serious thing indeed.'
'No man feels that more strongly than I do, Mr Wharton.'
'There had better be an end of it.'
'Even though I should be happy enough to obtain her favour?'
'I can't think that she cares about you. I don't think it for a
moment. You say that you haven't spoken to her, and I am sure
she's not a girl to throw herself at a man's head. I don't
approve it, and it had better fall to the ground. It must fall
to the ground.'
'I wish you would give me a reason.'
'Because you are not English.'
'But I am English. My father was a foreigner.'
'It doesn't suit my ideas. I suppose I may have my own ideas
about my own family, Mr Lopez? I feel perfectly certain that my
child will do nothing to displease me, and this would displease
me. If we were to talk for an hour, I could say nothing
further.'
'I hope that I may be able to present things to you in an aspect
so altered,' said Lopez as he prepared to take his leave, 'as to
make you change your mind.'
'Possibly;--possibly,' said Wharton; 'but I do not think it is
possible. Good morning to you, sir. If I have said anything
that has seemed to be unkind, put it down to my anxiety as a
father and to not to my conduct as a man.' Then the door was
closed behind his visitor, and Mr Wharton was left walking up and
down his room alone. He was by no means satisfied with himself.
He felt that he had been rude and at the same time not decisive.
He had not explained to the man as he would wish to have done,
that it was monstrous and out of the question that a daughter of
the Whartons, one of the oldest families in England, should be
given to a friendless Portuguese, a probable Jew,--about whom
nobody knew nothing. Then he remembered that sooner or later his
girl would have at least 60,000 pounds, a fact of which no human
being but himself was aware. Would it not be well that somebody
should be made aware of it, so that his girl might have the
chance of suitors preferable to the swarthy son of Judah? He
began to be afraid, as he thought of it, that he was not managing
his matters well. How would it be with him if he should find
that the girl was really in love with this swarthy son of Judah?
He had never inquired about his girl's heart, though there was
one to whom he hoped that his girl's heart might some day be
given. He almost made up his mind to go home at once, so anxious
was he. But the prospect of having to spend an entire afternoon
in Manchester Square was too much for him, as he remained in his
chamber till the usual hour.
Lopez, as he returned from Lincoln's Inn, westward to his club,
was, on the whole, contented with the interview. He had expected
opposition. He had not thought the cherry would fall easily into
his mouth. But the conversation generally had not taken those
turns which he thought would be most detrimental to him.
CHAPTER 4
MRS ROBY.
Mr Wharton, as he walked home, remembered that Mrs Roby was to
dine at his house that evening. During the remainder of the day,
after the departure of Lopez, he had been unable to take his mind
from the consideration of the proposition made to him. He had
tried the novel, and he had tried Huggins v. the Trustees of the
Charity of St Ambox, a case of undeniable importance in which he
was engaged on the part of Huggins, but neither was sufficiently
powerful to divert his thoughts. Throughout the morning he was
imagining what he would say to Emily about this lover of hers,--
in what way he would commence the conversation, and how he would
express his own opinion should he find that she was in any degree
favourable to the man. Should she altogether ignore the man's
pretensions, there would be no difficulty. But if she hesitated,
--if, as was certainly possible, she should show any partiality
for the man, then there would be a knot which would required
untying. Hitherto the intercourse between the father and
daughter had been simple and pleasant. He had given her
everything she had asked for, and she had obeyed him in all the
very few matters as to which he had demanded obedience.
Questions of discipline, as far as there had been any discipline,
had generally been left to Mrs Roby. Mrs Roby was to dine at
Manchester Square to-day, and perhaps it would be well that he
should have a few words with Mrs Roby before he spoke to his
daughter.
Mrs Roby had a husband, but Mr Roby had not been asked to dine in
the Square on this occasion. Mrs Roby dined in the Square very
often, but Mr Roby very seldom,--not probably above once a year,
on some special occasion. He and Mr Wharton had married sisters,
but they were quite unlike in character, and had never become
friends. Mrs Wharton had been nearly twenty years younger than
her sister; and Mr Roby a year or two younger than his wife. The
two men therefore belonged to different periods of life, Mr Roby
at the present time being a florid youth of forty. He had a
moderate fortune, inherited from his mother, of which he was
sufficiently careful; but he loved races, and read sporting
papers; he was addicted to hunting and billiards; he shot
pigeons,--and, so Mr Wharton had declared calumniously more than
once to an intimate friend,--had not an H in his vocabulary.
The poor man did drop an aspirate now and again; but he knew his
defect and strove hard, and with fair average success, to
overcome it. But Mr Wharton did not love him, and they were not
friends. Perhaps neither did Mrs Roby love him very ardently.
She was at any rate almost always willing to leave her own house
to come to the Square, and on such occasions Mr Roby was always
willing to dine at the Nimrod, the club which it delighted him to
frequent.
Mr Wharton on entering his own house, met his son on the
staircase. 'Do you dine at home to-day, Everett?'
'Well, sir, no, sir. I don't think I do. I think I half
promised to dine with a fellow at the club.'
'Don't you think you'd make things meet more easily about the end
of the year if you dined oftener here, where you have nothing to
pay, and less frequently at the club, where you pay for
everything?'
'But what should I save you would lose, sir. That's the way I
look at it.'
'Then I advise you to look at it the other way, and leave me to
take care of myself. Come in here, I want to speak to you.'
Everett followed his father into a dingy back parlour, which was
fitted up with book shelves and was generally called the study,
but which was gloomy and comfortless because it was seldom used.
'I have had your friend Lopez with me at my chambers to-day. I
don't like your friend Lopez.'
'I am sorry for that, sir.'
'He is a man to whom I should wish to have a good deal of
evidence before I would trust him to be what he seems to be. I
dare say he's clever.'
'I think he's more than clever.'
'I dare say;--and well instructed in some respects.'
'I believe him to be a thorough linguist, sir.'
'I dare say. I remember a waiter in a hotel in Holborn who could
speak seven languages. It's an accomplishment very necessary for
a Courier or Queen's Messenger.'
'You don't mean to say, sir, that you disregard foreign
languages?'
'I have said nothing of the kind. But in my estimation they
don't stand in the place of principles, or a profession, or
birth, or country. I fancy there has been some conversation
between you about your sister.'
'Certainly there has.'
'A young man should be very chary about how he speaks to another
man, to a stranger, about his sister. A sister's name should be
too sacred for club talk.'
'Club talk! Good heavens, sir, you don't think that I have
spoken of Emily in that way? There isn't a man in London who has
a higher respect for his sister than I have for mine. This man,
by no means in a light way, but with all seriousness, has told me
that he was attached to Emily; and I believing him to be a
gentleman and well to do in this world, have referred him to you.
Can that have been wrong?'
'I don't know how he's "to do", as you call it. I haven't asked,
and I don't mean to ask. But I doubt his being a gentleman. He
is not an English gentleman. What was his father?'
'I haven't the least idea.'
'Or his mother?'
'He has never mentioned her to me.'
'Nor his family; nor anything of their antecedents? He is a man
fallen out of the moon. All that is nothing to us as passing
acquaintances. Between men such ignorance should I think bar
absolute intimacy;--but that may be a matter of taste. But it
should be held to be utterly antagonistic to any such alliance as
that of marriage. He seems to be a friend of yours. You had
better make him understand that it is quite out of the question.
I have told him so, and you had better repeat it.' So saying, Mr
Wharton went upstairs to dress, and Everett, having received his
father's instructions, went away to the club.
When Mr Wharton reached the drawing-room, he found Mrs Roby
alone, and he at once resolved to discuss the matter with her
before he spoke to his daughter. 'Harriet,' he said abruptly,
'do you know anything of Mr Lopez?'
'Mr Lopez! Oh, yes, I know him.'
'Do you mean that he is an intimate friend?'
'As friends go on London, he is. He comes to our house, and I
think that he hunts with Dick.' Dick was Mr Roby.
'That's a recommendation.'
'Well, Mr Wharton, I hardly know what you mean by that,' said Mrs
Roby, smiling. 'I don't think my husband will do Mr Lopez any
harm; and I am sure Mr Lopez won't do my husband any.'
'I dare say not. But that's not the question. Roby can take
care of himself.'
'Quite so.'
'And so I dare say can Mr Lopez.' At this moment Emily entered
the room. 'My dear,' said her father, 'I am speaking to your
aunt. Would you mind going downstairs and waiting for us? Tell
them we shall be ready for dinner in ten minutes.' Then Emily
passed out of the room, and Mrs Roby assumed a grave demeanour.
'The man we are speaking of has been to me and has made an offer
for Emily.' As he said this he looked anxiously into his sister-
in-law's face, in order that he might tell from that how far she
favoured the idea of such a marriage,--and he thought that he
perceived at once, that she was not averse to it. 'You know it
is quite out of the question,' he continued.
'I don't know why it should be out of the question. But of
course your opinion would have great weight with Emily.'
'Great weight! Well;--I should hope so. If not, I do not know
whose opinion is to have weight. In the first place, the man is
a foreigner.'
'Oh, no;--he is English. But if he were a foreigner many
English girls marry foreigners.'
'My daughter shall not;--not with my permission. You have not
encouraged her, I hope.'
'I have not interfered at all,' said Mrs Roby. But this was a
lie. Mrs Roby had interfered. Mrs Roby, in discussing the
merits and character of the lover to the young lady, had always
lent herself to the lover's aid,--and had condescended to accept
from the lover various presents which she could hardly have taken
had she been hostile to him.
'And now tell me about herself. Has she seen him often?'
'Why, Mr Wharton, he has dined here, in the house, over and over
again. I thought you were encouraging him.'
'Heavens and earth!'
'Of course she has seen him. When a man dines at a house he is
bound to call. Of course he has called,--I don't know how
often. And she has met him round the corner.'--"Round the
corner" in Manchester Square, meant Mrs Roby's house in Berkeley
Street.--'Last Sunday they were at the Zoo together. Dick got
them tickets. I thought you knew about it.'
'Do you mean that my daughter went to the Zoological Gardens
alone with this man?' the father asked in dismay.
'Dick was with them. I should have gone, only I had a headache.
Did you not know that she went?'
'Yes,--I heard about the Gardens. But I heard nothing about the
man.'
'I thought, Mr Wharton, you were all in his favour.'
'I am not at all in his favour. I dislike him particularly. For
anything I know he may have sold pencils about the streets like
any other Jew-boy.'
'He goes to church, just as you do,--that is, if he goes
anywhere; which I dare say he does about as often as yourself, Mr
Wharton.' Now Mr Wharton, though he was a thorough and perhaps
bigoted member of the Church of England, was not fond of going to
church.
'Do you mean to tell me,' he said, pressing his hands together,
and looking very seriously into his sister-in-law's face; 'do you
mean to tell me that she--likes him?'
'Yes;--I think she does like him.'
'You don't mean to say--she's in love with him?'
'She has never told me that she is. Young ladies are shy of
making such assertions as to their own feelings before due time
for doing so has come. I think she prefers him to anybody else;
and that were he to propose to herself, she would give him her
consent to go to you.'
'He shall never enter this house again,' said Mr Wharton
passionately.
'You must arrange that with her. If you have so strong an
objection to him. I wonder that you should have had him here at
all.'
'How was I to know? God bless my soul!--just because a man was
allowed to dine here once or twice! Upon my word, it's too bad.'
'Papa, won't you and aunt come down to dinner?' asked Emily,
opening the door gently. Then they went down to dinner, and
during the meal nothing was said about Mr Lopez. But they were
not very merry together, and poor Emily felt sure her own affairs
had been discussed in a troublesome manner.
CHAPTER 5
'NO ONE KNOWS ANYTHING ABOUT HIM.'
Neither at dinner on that evening at Manchester Square, nor after
dinner, as long as Mrs Roby remained in the house, was a word
said about Lopez by Mr Wharton. He remained longer than usual
with his bottle of port wine in the dining-room, and when he went
upstairs, he sat himself down and fell asleep, almost without a
sign. He did not ask for a song, nor did Emily offer to sing.
But as soon as Mrs Roby was gone,--and Mrs Roby went home, round
the corner, somewhat earlier than usual,--then Mr Wharton woke up
instantly and made inquiry of his daughter.
There had, however, been a few words spoken on the subject
between Mrs Roby and her niece, which had served to prepare Emily
for what was coming. 'Lopez has been to your father,' said Mrs
Roby, in a voice not specially encouraging for such an occasion.
Then she paused a moment, but her niece said nothing, and she
continued, 'Yes,--and your father has been blaming me,--as if I
had done anything! If he did not mean you to choose for
yourself, why didn't he keep a closer look-out?'
'I haven't chosen anyone, Aunt Harriet.'
'Well;--to speak fairly. I thought you had; and I have nothing
to say against your choice. As young men go, I think Mr Lopez is
as good as the best of them. I don't know why you shouldn't have
him. Of course you'll have money, but then I suppose he makes a
large income himself. As to Mr Fletcher, you don't care a bit
about him.'
'Not in that way certainly.'
'No doubt your papa will have it out with you just now; so you
had better make up your mind what you will say to him. If you
really like the man, I don't see why you shouldn't say so, and
stick to it. He has made a regular offer, and girls these days
are not expected to be their father's slaves.' Emily said
nothing further to her aunt on that occasion, but finding that
she must in truth 'have it out' with her father presently, gave
herself up to reflection. It might probably be the case that the
whole condition of her future life would depend on the way in
which she might now 'have it out' with her father.
I would not wish the reader to be prejudiced against Miss Wharton
by the most unnatural feeling which perhaps may be felt in regard
to the aunt. Mrs Roby was pleased with little intrigues, was
addicted to the amusement of fostering love affairs, was fond of
being thought to be useful in such matters, and was not averse to
having presents given to her. She had married a vulgar man; and
though she had not become like the man, she had become vulgar.
She was not an eligible companion for Mr Wharton's daughter,--a
matter as to which the father had not given himself proper
opportunities of learning the facts. An aunt in his close
neighbourhood was so great a comfort to him,--so ready and so
natural an assistance to him in his difficulties! But Emily
Wharton was not in the least like her aunt, nor had Mrs Wharton
been at all like Mrs Roby. No doubt the contact was dangerous.
Injury had perhaps already been done. It may be that some
slightest soil had already marred the pure white of the girl's
natural character. But if so, the stain was yet too impalpable
to be visible to ordinary eyes.
Emily Wharton was a tall fair girl, with grey eyes, rather
exceeding the average proportions as well as height of women.
Her features were regular and handsome, and her form was perfect,
but it was by her manner and her voice that she conquered, rather
than by her beauty,--by those gifts and by a clearness of
intellect joined with that feminine sweetness which has its most
frequent foundation in self-denial. Those who knew her well, and
had become attached to her, were apt to endow her with all
virtues, and to give her credit for a loveliness which strangers
did not find on her face. But as we do not light up our houses
with our brightest lamps for all comers, so neither did she emit
from her eyes their brightest sparks till special occasion for
such shining had arisen. To those who were allowed to love her
no woman was more lovable. There was innate in her an
appreciation of her own position as a woman, and with it a
principle of self-denial as a human being, which it was beyond
the power of any Mrs Roby to destroy or even defile by small
stains.
Like other girls she had been taught to presume that it was her
destiny to be married, and like other girls she had thought much
about her destiny. A young man generally regards it as his
destiny either to succeed or to fail in this world, and he thinks
about that. To him marriage, when it comes, is an accident to
which he has hardly as yet given a thought. But to the girl the
matrimony which is or is not to be her destiny contains within
itself the only success or failure which she anticipates. The
young man may become Lord Chancellor, or at any rate earn his
bread comfortably as a country court judge. But the girl can
look forward to little else than the chance of having a good man
for her husband;--a good man, or if her tastes lie in that
direction, a rich man. Emily Wharton had doubtless thought about
those things, and she sincerely believed that she had found the
good man in Ferdinand Lopez.
The man, certainly, was one strangely endowed with the power of
creating a belief. When going to Mr Wharton in his chambers, he
had not intended to cheat the lawyer into any erroneous idea
about his family, but he had resolved that he would so discuss
the question of his own condition, which would probably be
raised, as to leave upon the old man's mind an unfounded
conviction that, in regard to money and income, he had no reason
to fear question. Not a word had been said about his money or
his income. And Mr Wharton had felt himself bound to abstain
from allusions to such matters from an assured feeling that he
could not in that direction plant an enduring objection. In this
way Lopez had carried his point with Mr Wharton. He had
convinced Mrs Roby that among all the girl's attractions the
greatest attraction for him was the fact that she was Mrs Roby's
niece. He had made Emily herself believe that the one strong
passion of his life was his love for her, and this he had done
without ever having asked for her love. And he had even taken
the trouble to allure Dick, and had listened to and had talked
whole pages out of "Bell's Life". On his own behalf it must be
acknowledged that he did love the girl, as well perhaps as he was
capable of loving anyone;--but he had found out many particulars
as to Mr Wharton's money before he had allowed himself to love
her.
As soon as Mrs Roby had gathered up her knitting, and declared,
as she always did on such occasions, that she could go round the
corner without having anyone to look after her. Mr Wharton
began, 'Emily, my dear, come here.' Then she came and sat on a
footstool at his feet, and looked up into his face. 'Do you know
what I am going to speak about, my darling?'
'Yes, papa; I think I do. It is about--Mr Lopez.'
'Your aunt has told you, I suppose. Yes, it is about Mr Lopez.
I have been very much astonished to-day by Mr Lopez,--a man of
whom I have seen very little and know less. He came to me to-day
and asked for my permission--to address you.' She sat perfectly
quiet, still looking at him, but did not say a word. 'Of course
I did not give my permission.'
'Why of course, papa?'
'Because he is a stranger and a foreigner. Would you have wished
me to tell him that he might come?'
'Yes, papa.' He was sitting on a sofa and shrank back a little
from her as she made this free avowal. 'In that case I could
have judged for myself. I suppose every girl would like to do
that.'
'But should you have accepted him?'
'I think I should have consulted you before I did that. But I
should have wished to accept him. Papa, I do love him. I have
never said that before to anyone. I would not say so to you now,
if he had not--spoken to you as he has done.'
'Emily, it must not be.'
'Why not, papa? If you say it shall not be so, it shall not, I
will do as you bid me.' Then he put out his hand and caressed
her, stroking down her hair. 'But I think you ought to tell me
why it must not be,--as I do love him.'
'He is a foreigner.'
'But is he? And why should not a foreigner be as good as an
Englishman? His name is foreign, but he talks English and lives
as an Englishman.'
'He has no relatives, no family, no belongings. He is what we
call an adventurer. Marriage, my dear, is a most serious thing.'
'Yes, papa, I know that.'
'One is bound to be very careful. How can I give you to a man I
know nothing about,--an adventurer? What would they say in
Hertfordshire?'
'I don't know why they should say anything, but if they did I
shouldn't much care.'
'I should, my dear. I should care very much. One is bound to
think of one's family. Suppose it should turn out afterwards
that he was--disreputable?'
'You may say that of any man, papa.'
'But when a man has connections, a father and a mother, or uncles
and aunts, people that everybody knows about, then there is some
guarantee of security. Did you ever hear this man speak of his
father?'
'I don't know that he ever did.'
'Or his mother,--or his family? Don't you think that is
suspicious?'
'I will ask him, papa, if you wish.'
'No. I would have you ask him nothing. I would not wish that
there should be an opportunity for such asking. If there has
been intimacy between you, such information should have come
naturally,--as a thing of course. You have made him no
promise?'
'Oh no, papa.'
'Nor spoken to him--of your regard for him?'
'Never;--not a word. Nor to me,--except in such words as one
understands even though they say nothing.'
'I wish he had never seen you.'
'Is he a bad man, papa?'
'Who knows? I cannot tell. He may be ever so bad. How is one
to know whether a man be bad or good when one knows nothing about
him?' At this point the father got up and walked about the room.
'The long and the short of it is that you must not see him any
more.'
'Did you tell him so?'
'Yes;--well; I don't know whether I said exactly that, but I
told him that the whole thing must come to an end. And it must.
Luckily it seems that nothing has been said on either side.'
'But papa;--is there to be no reason?'
'Haven't I given reasons? I will not have my daughter encourage
an adventurer,--a man of whom nobody knows anything. That is
reason sufficient.'
'He has a business, and lives with gentlemen. He is Everett's
friend. He is well educated;--oh, so much better than most men
that one meets. And he is clever. Papa, I wish you knew him
better than you do.'
'I do not want to know him better.'
'Is not that prejudice, papa?'
'My dear Emily,' said Mr Wharton, striving to wax into anger that
he might be firm against her. 'I don't think it becomes you to
ask your father such a question as that. You ought to believe
that it is the chief object of my life to do the best I can for
my children.'
'I am sure it is.'
'And you ought to feel that, as I have had a long experience in
the world, my judgement about a young man might be trusted.'
That was a statement which Miss Wharton was not prepared to
admit. She had already professed herself willing to submit to
her father's judgement, and did not now by any means contemplate
rebellion against parental authority. But she did feel that on a
matter so vital to her she had a right to plead her cause before
judgement should be given, and she was not slow to assure
herself, even as this interview went on, that her love for the
man was strong enough to entitle her to assure her father that
her happiness depended on his reversal of the sentence already
pronounced. 'You know, papa, that I trust you,' she said, 'And I
have promised you that I will not disobey you. If you tell me
that I am never to see Mr Lopez again, I will not see him.'
'You are a good girl. You were always a good girl.'
'But I think that you ought to hear me.' Then he stood still
with his hands in his trouser pockets looking at her. He did not
want to hear a word, but he felt that he would be a tyrant if he
refused. 'If you tell me that I am not to see him, I shall not
see him. But I shall be very unhappy. I do love him, and I
shall never love anyone else in the same way.'
'That is nonsense, Emily. There is Arthur Fletcher.'
'I am sure you will never ask me to marry a man I do not love,
and I shall never love Arthur Fletcher. If this is to be as you
say, it will make me very, very wretched. It is right that you
should know the truth. If it is only because Mr Lopez has a
foreign name--'
'It isn't only that; no one knows anything about him, or where
one might inquire even.'
'I think you should inquire, papa, and be quite certain before
you pronounce such a sentence against me. It will be a crushing
blow.' He looked at her, and saw that there was a fixed purpose
in her countenance of which he had never before seen similar
signs. 'You claim a right to my obedience, and I acknowledge it.
I am sure you believe me when I promise not to see him without
your permission.'
'I do believe you. Of course I believe you.'
'But if I do that for you, papa, I think that you ought to be
very sure, on my account, that I haven't to bear such unhappiness
for nothing. You'll think about it, papa,--will you not, before
you quite decide?' She leaned against him as she spoke, and he
kissed her. 'Good night, now, papa. You will think about it?'
'I will. I will. Of course I will.'
And he began the process of thinking about it immediately,--
before the door was closed behind her. But what was there to
think about? Nothing that she had said altered in the least
his idea about the man. He was convinced as ever that unless
there was much to conceal there would not be so much concealment.
But a feeling began to grow upon him already that his daughter
had a mode of pleading with him which he would not ultimately be
able to resist. He had the power, he knew, of putting an end to
the thing altogether. He had only to say resolutely and
unchangeably that the thing shouldn't be, and it wouldn't. If he
could steel his heart against his daughter's sorrow for, say, a
twelvemonth, the victory would be won. But he already began to
fear that he lacked the power to steel his heart against his
daughter.
CHAPTER 6
AN OLD FRIEND GOES TO WINDSOR.
'And what are they going to make you now?'
This question was asked of her husband by a lady with whom
perhaps the readers of this volume may have already formed some
acquaintance. Chronicles of her early life have been written, at
any rate copiously. The lady was the Duchess of Omnium, and her
husband was of course the Duke. In order that the nature of the
question asked by the Duchess may be explained, it must be stated
that just at this time the political affairs of the nation had
got themselves tied up into one of those truly desperate knots
from which even the wisdom and experience of septuagenarian
statesmen can see no unravelment. The heads of parties were at a
standstill. In the House of Commons, there was, so to say, no
majority on either side. The minds of members were so astray
that, according to the best calculation that could be made, there
would be a majority of about ten against any possible Cabinet.
There would certainly be a majority against either of those well-
tried, but, at this moment, little trusted Prime Ministers, Mr
Gresham and Mr Daubney. There were certain men, nominally
belonging to this or to the other party, who would certainly
within a week of the nomination of a Cabinet in the House, oppose
the Cabinet which they ought to support. Mr Daubney had been in
power,--nay, was in power, though he had twice resigned. Mr
Gresham had been twice sent for to Windsor, and had on one
occasion undertaken and on another had refused to undertake to
form a Ministry. Mr Daubney had tried two or three combinations,
and had been at his wits' end. He was no doubt still in power,--
could appoint bishops, and make peers, and give away ribbons.
But he couldn't pass a law, and certainly continued to hold his
present uncomfortable position by no will of his own. But a
Prime Minister cannot escape till he has succeeded in finding a
successor; and though the successor be found and consents to make
an attempt, the old unfortunate cannot be allowed to go free when
the attempt is shown to be a failure. He has not absolutely
given up the keys of his boxes, and no one will take them from
him. Even a sovereign can abdicate; but the Prime Minister of a
constitutional government is in bonds. The reader may therefore
understand that the Duchess was asking her husband what place
among the political rulers of the country had been offered to him
by the last aspirant to the leadership of the Government.
But the reader should understand more than this, and may perhaps
do so, if he has ever seen those former chronicles to which
allusion has been made. The Duke, before he became a duke, had
held very high office, having been the Chancellor of the
Exchequer. When he was transferred, perforce, to the House of
Lords, he had,--as it is not uncommon in such cases,--accepted
a lower political station. This had displeased the Duchess, who
was ambitious both on her own behalf and that of her lord,--and
who thought that a Duke of Omnium should be nothing in the
Government if not at any rate near the top. But after that, with
the simple and single object of doing some special piece of work
for the nation,--something which he fancied that nobody else
would do if he didn't do it,--his Grace, of his own motion, at
his own solicitation, had encountered further official
degradation, very much to the disgust of the Duchess. And it was
not the way with her Grace to hide such sorrows in the depth of
her bosom. When affronted she would speak out, whether to her
husband, or to another,--using irony rather than argument to
support her cause and to vindicate her ways. The shafts of
ridicule hurled by her against her husband in regard to his
voluntary abasement had been many and sharp. They stung him, but
never for a moment influenced him. It was her nature to say such
things,--and he knew that they came rather from her uncontrolled
spirit than from any malice. She was his wife too, and he had an
idea that of little injuries of that sort there should be no end
of bearing on the part of a husband. Sometimes he would
endeavour to explain to her the motives which actuated him; but
he had come to fear that they were and must be unintelligible to
her. But he credited her with less than her real intelligence.
She did understand the nature of his work and his reasons for
doing it; and, after her own fashion, did what she conceived to
be her own work in endeavouring to create within his bosom a
desire for higher things. 'Surely,' she said to herself, 'if a
man of his rank is to be a minister, he should be a great
minister;--at any rate as great as his circumstances will make
him. A man never can save his country by degrading himself.' In
this he would probably have agreed; but his idea of degradation
and hers hardly tallied.
When therefore she asked him what they were going to make him, it
was as though some sarcastic housekeeper in a great establishment
should ask the butler,--some butler too prone to yield in such
matters,--whether the master had appointed him lately to the
cleaning of shoes or the carrying of coals. Since these knots
had become so very tight, and since the journeys to Windsor had
become so very frequent, her Grace had asked many such questions,
and had received but very indifferent replies. The Duke had
sometimes declared that the matter was not ripe enough to allow
him to make any answer. 'Of course,' said the Duchess, 'you
should keep the secret. The editors of the evening papers
haven't known it for above an hour.' At another time he told her
that he had undertaken to give Mr Gresham his assistance in any
way that might be asked.
'Joint undersecretary with Lord Fawn, I should say,' answered the
Duchess. Then he told her that he believed an attempt would be
made at a mixed ministry, but that he did not in the least know
to whom the work of doing so would be confided. 'You will be
about the last man who will be told,' replied the Duchess. Now,
at this moment, he had, as she knew, come direct from the house
of Mr Gresham, and she asked her question in her usual spirit.
'And what are they going to make you now?'
But he did not answer the question in his usual manner. He would
customarily smile gently at her badinage, and perhaps say a word
intended to show that he was not in the least moved by her
raillery. But in this instance he was very grave, and stood
before her a moment making no answer at all, looking at her in a
sad and almost solemn manner. 'They have told you that they can
do without you,' she said, breaking out almost into a passion.
'I knew it would be. Men are always valued by others as they
value themselves.'
'I wish it were so,' he replied. 'I should sleep easier to-
night.'
'What is it, Plantagenet?' she exclaimed, jumping up from her
chair.
'I never cared for your ridicule hitherto, Cora, but now I feel
that I want your sympathy.'
'If you are going to do anything,--to do really anything, you
shall have it. Oh, how you shall have it!'
'I have received her Majesty's orders to go down to Windsor at
once. I must start within half an hour.'
'You are going to be Prime Minister!' she exclaimed. As she
spoke she threw her arms up, and then rushed into his embrace.
Never since their first union had she been so demonstrative
either of love or admiration. 'Oh, Plantagenet,' she said, 'if I
can do anything I will slave for you.' As he put his arm round
her waist he already felt the pleasantness of her altered way to
him. She had never worshipped him yet, and therefore her worship
when it did come had all the delight to him which it ordinarily
has to the newly married hero.
'Stop a moment, Cora. I do not know how it may be yet. But this
I know, that if without cowardice I could avoid this task, I
would certainly avoid it.'
'Oh no! And there would be cowardice; of course there would,'
said the Duchess, not much caring what might be the bonds which
bound him to the task so long as he should certainly feel himself
to be bound.
'He has told me that he thinks it my duty to make the attempt.'
'Who is he?'
'Mr Gresham. I do not know that I should have felt myself bound
by him, but the Duke said also.' This duke was our duke's old
friend, the Duke of St Bungay.
'Was he there? And who else?'
'No one else. It is no case for exultation, Cora, for the
chances are that I shall fail. The Duke has promised to help me,
on condition that one or two he has named are included, and that
one or two whom he has also named are not. In each case, I
should myself have done exactly as he proposes.'
'And Mr Gresham?'
'He will retire. That is a matter of course. He will intend to
support me, but all that is veiled in the obscurity which is
always, I think, darker as to the future of politics than any
other future. Clouds arise, one knows not why or whence, and
create darkness when one expected light. But as yet, you must
understand, nothing is settled. I cannot even say what answer I
may make to her Majesty, till I know what commands her Majesty
may lay upon me.'
'You must keep a hold of it now, Plantagenet,' said the Duchess,
clenching her own fist.
'I will not even close a finger on it with any personal
ambition,' said the Duke. 'If I could be relieved from the
burden of this moment, it would be an ease to my heart. I
remember once,' he said,--and as he spoke he again put his arm
around her waist, 'when I was debarred from taking office, by a
domestic circumstance.'
'I remember that too,' she said, speaking very gently and looking
up at him.
'It was a grief to me at the time, though it turned out so well,
--because the office then suggested to me was one which I thought
I could fill with credit to the country. I believed in myself
then, as far as that work went. But for this attempt I have no
belief in myself. I doubt whether I have any gift for governing
men.'
'It will come.'
'It may be that I must try;--and it may be that I must break my
heart because I fail. But I shall make the attempt if I am
directed to do so in any manner that shall seem feasible. I must
be off now. The Duke is to be here this evening. They had
better have dinner ready for me whenever I may be able to eat
it.' Then he took his departure before she could say another
word.
When the Duchess was alone she took to thinking of the whole
thing in a manner which they who best knew her would have thought
to be very unusual with her. She already possessed all that rank
and wealth could give her, and together with those good things a
peculiar position of her own, of which she was proud, and which
she had made her own not by her wealth and rank, but by a certain
fearless energy and power of raillery which never deserted her.
Many feared her, and she was afraid of none, and many also loved
her,--whom she also loved, for her nature was affectionate. She
was happy with her children, happy with her friends, in the
enjoyment of perfect health, and capable of taking an exaggerated
interest in anything that might come uppermost for the moment.
One would have been inclined to say that politics were altogether
unnecessary to her, and that as Duchess of Omnium, lately known
as Lady Glencora Palliser, she had a wider and pleasanter
influence than could belong to any woman as wife of a Prime
Minister. And she was essentially one of those women who are not
contented to be known simply as the wives of their husbands. She
had a celebrity of her own, quite independent of his position,
and which could not be enhanced by any glory or any power added
to him. Nevertheless, when he left her to go down to the Queen
with the prospect of being called upon to act as chief of the
incoming ministry, her heart throbbed with excitement. It had
come at last, and he would be, to her thinking, the leading man
in the greatest kingdom in the world.
But she felt in regard to him somewhat as did Lady Macbeth
towards her lord.
What thou would'st highly,
That would'st thou holily.
She knew him to be full of scruples, unable to bend when aught
was to be got by bending, unwilling to domineer when men might be
brought to subjection only by domination. The first duty never
could be taught to him. To win support by smiles when his heart
was bitter within him would never be within the power of her
husband. He could never be brought to buy an enemy by political
gifts,--would never be prone to silence his keenest opponent by
making him his right hand supporter. But the other lesson was easier
and might she thought be learned. Power is so pleasant that men
quickly learn to be greedy in the enjoyment of it, and to flatter
themselves that patriotism requires them to be imperious. She
would be constant with him day and night to make him understand
that his duty to his country required him to be in very truth its
chief ruler. And then with some knowledge of things as they are,
--and also with much ignorance,--she reflected that he had at
his command a means of obtaining popularity and securing power,
which had not belonged to his immediate predecessors, and had
perhaps never to the same extent been at the command of any
minister of England. His wealth as Duke of Omnium had been
great; but hers, as available for immediate purposes, had been
greater than even his. After some fashion, of which she was
profoundly ignorant, her own property was separated from his and
reserved to herself and her children. Since her marriage she had
never said a word to him about her money,--unless it were to ask
that something out of the common course might be spent on some,
generally absurd, object. But now had come the time for
squandering money. She was not only rich, but she had a
popularity that was exclusively her own. The new Prime Minister
and the new Prime Minister's wife should entertain after a
fashion that had never yet been known even among the nobility of
England. Both in town and country those great mansions should be
kept open which were now rarely much used because she found them
dull, cold, and comfortless. In London there should not be a
member of Parliament whom she would not herself know and
influence by her flattery and grace,--or if there were men whom
she could not influence, they should live as men tabooed and
unfortunate. Money mattered nothing. Their income was enormous,
and for a series of years,--for half a dozen years if the game
could be kept up so long,--they could spend treble what they
called their income without real injury to their children.
Visions passed through her brain of wondrous things which might
be done,--if only her husband would be true to his own
greatness.
The Duke had left her at about two. She did not stir out of the
house that day, but in the course of the afternoon she wrote a
line to a friend who lived not very far from her. The Duchess
dwelt in Carlton Terrace, and her friend in Park Lane. The note
was as follows:
DEAR M,
Come to me at once. I am too
excited to go to you. Yours G
This was addressed to one Mrs Finn, a lady as to whom chronicles
have been written, and who has been known to the readers of such
chronicles as a friend dearly loved by the Duchess. As quickly
as she could put on her carriage garments and get herself to
Carlton Terrace, Mrs Finn was there. 'Well, my dear, how do you
think it's all settled at last?' said the Duchess. It will
probably be felt that the new Prime Minister's wife was
indiscreet, and hardly worthy of the confidence placed in her by
her husband. But surely we all have some one friend to whom we
tell everything, and with the Duchess Mrs Finn was that one
friend.
'Is the Duke to be Prime Minister?'
'How on earth should you have guessed that?'
'What else could make you so excited? Besides, it is by no means
strange. I understand that they have gone on trying the two old
stages till it is useless to try them any longer; and if there is
to be a fresh man, no one would be more likely than the Duke.'
'Do you think so?'
'Certainly. Why not?'
'He has frittered away his political position by such meaningless
concessions. And then he had never done anything to put himself
forward,--at any rate since he left the House of Commons.
Perhaps I haven't read things right--but I was surprised, very
much surprised.'
'And gratified?'
'Oh yes. I can tell you everything, because you will neither
misunderstand me nor tell tales of me. Yes,--I shall like him
to be Prime Minister, though I know that I shall have a bad time
of it myself.'
'Why a bad time?'
'He is so hard to manage. Of course, I don't mean about
politics. Of course it must be a mixed kind of thing at first,
and I don't care a straw whether it run to Radicalism or Toryism.
The country goes on its own way; either for better or for worse,
which ever of them are in. I don't think it makes any difference
what sort of laws are passed. But among ourselves, in our set,
it makes a deal of difference who gets the garters, and the
counties, who are made barons and then earls, and whose name
stands at the head of everything.'
'That is your way of looking at politics?'
'I own it to you;--and I must teach it to him.'
'You never will do that, Lady Glen.'
'Never is a long word. I mean to try. For look back and tell me
of any Prime Minister who has become sick of his power. They
become sick of the want of power when it's falling away from
them,--and then they affect to disdain and put aside the thing
they can no longer enjoy. Love of power is a kind of feeling
which comes to man as he grows older.'
'Politics with the Duke have been simple patriotism,' said Mrs
Finn.
'The patriotism may remain, my dear, but not the simplicity. I
don't want him to sell his country to Germany, or to turn it into
an American republic in order that he may be president. But when
he gets the reins into his hands, I want him to keep them there.
If he's so much honester than other people, of course he's the
best man for the place. We must make him believe that the very
existence of the country depends on his firmness.'
'To tell you the truth, Lady Glen, I don't think you'll ever make
the Duke believe anything. What he believes, he believes either
from very old habit, or from the working of his own mind.'
'You're always singing his praises, Marie.'
'I don't know that there is any special praise in what I say; but
as far as I can see, it is the man's character.'
'Mr Finn will come in, of course,' said the Duchess.
'Mr Finn will be like the Duke in one thing. He'll take his own
way as to being in or out, quite independent of his wife.'
'You'd like him to be in office?'
'No, indeed! Why should I? He would be more often at the House,
and keep later hours, and be always away all the morning into the
bargain. But I shall like him to do as he likes himself.'
'Fancy thinking of all that, I'd sit up all night every night of
my life,--I'd listen to every debate in the House myself,--to
have Plantagenet Prime Minister. I like to be busy. Well now,
if it does come off--'
'It isn't settled, then?'
'How can one hope that a single journey will settle it, when
those other men have been going backwards and forwards between
Windsor and London, like buckets in a well, for the last three
weeks? But if it is settled, I mean to have a cabinet of my own,
and I mean that you shall do the foreign affairs.'
'You'd better let me be at the exchequer. I'm very good at
accounts.'
'I'll do that myself. The accounts that I intend to set a-going
would frighten anyone less audacious. And I mean to be my own
home secretary, and to keep my own conscience,--and to be my own
master of the ceremonies certainly. I think a small cabinet gets
on best. Do you know,--I should like to put the Queen down.'
'What on earth do you mean?'
'No treason; nothing of that kind. But I should like to make
Buckingham Palace second-rate; and I'm not quite sure but I can.
I dare say you don't quite understand me.'
'I don't think that I do, Lady Glen.'
'You will some of these days. Come in to-morrow before lunch. I
suppose I shall know all about it then, and shall have found that
my basket of crockery has been kicked over and everything
smashed.'
CHAPTER 7
ANOTHER OLD FRIEND.
At about nine the Duke returned, and was eating his very simple
dinner in the breakfast-room,--a beefsteak and a potato, with a
glass of sherry and Apollinaris water. No man more easily
satisfied as to what he eat and drank lived in London in those
days. As regarded the eating and drinking he dined alone, but
his wife sat with him and waited on him, having sent the servant
out of the room. 'I have told her Majesty I would do the best I
could,' said the Duke.
'Then you are Prime Minister.'
'Not at all. Mr Daubney is Prime Minister. I have undertaken to
form a ministry, if I find it practicable, with the assistance of
such friends as I possess, I never felt before that I had to lean
so entirely on others as I do now.'
'Lean on yourself only. Be enough for yourself.'
'Those are empty words, Cora;--words that are quite empty. In
one sense a man should always be enough for himself. He should
have enough of principle and enough of conscience to restrain him
from doing what he knows to be wrong. But can a shipbuilder
build his ship single-handed, or the watchmaker make his watch
without assistance? On former occasions such as this, I could
say, with little or no help from without, whether I would or
would not undertake the work that was proposed to me, because I
had only a bit of the ship to build, or a wheel of the watch to
make. My own efficacy for my present task would depend entirely
on the co-operation of others, and unfortunately upon that of
some others with whom I have no sympathy, nor they with me.'
'Leave them out,' said the Duchess boldly.
'But they are men who will not be left out, and whose services
the country has a right to expect.'
'Then bring them in, and think no more about it. It is no good
crying for pain that cannot be cured.'
'Co-operation is difficult without community of feeling. I find
myself to be too stubborn-hearted for the place. It was nothing
to me to sit in the same Cabinet with a man I disliked when I had
not put him there myself. But now--. As I have travelled up I
have almost felt that I could not do it! I did not know before
how much I might dislike a man.'
'Who is the one man?'
'Nay;--whoever he be, I will have to be a friend now, and
therefore I will not name him, even to you. But it is not one
only. If it were one, absolutely marked and recognised, I might
avoid him. But my friends, real friends, are so few! Who is
there besides the Duke on whom I can lean with both confidence
and love?'
'Lord Cantrip.'
'Hardly so, Cora. But Lord Cantrip goes out with Mr Gresham.
They will always cling together.'
'You used to like Mr Mildmay.'
'Mr Mildmay,--yes! If there could be a Mr Mildmay in the
Cabinet this trouble would not come upon my shoulders.'
'Then I'm very glad that there can't be Mr Mildmay. Why
shouldn't there be as good fish in the sea as ever were caught
out of it?'
'When you've got a good fish you like to make as much of it as
you can.'
'I suppose Mr Monk will join you.'
'I think we shall ask him. But I am not prepared to discuss
men's names as yet.'
'You must discuss them with the Duke immediately.'
'Probably;--but I had better discuss them with him before I fix
my own mind by naming them even to you.'
'You'll bring in Mr Finn, Plantagenet?'
'Mr Finn!'
'Yes,--Phineas Finn,--the man who was tried.'
'My dear Cora, we haven't come down to that yet. We need not at
any rate trouble ourselves about the small fishes till we are
sure that we can get the big fishes to join us.'
'I don't know why he should be a small fish. No man has done
better than he has; and if you want a man to stick to you--'
'I don't want a man to stick to me. I want a man to stick to his
country.'
'You were talking about sympathy.'
'Well, yes;--I was. But do not name anyone else just at
present. The Duke will be here soon, and I would be alone till
he comes.'
'There is one thing more I want to say, Plantagenet.'
'What is it?'
'One favour I want to ask.'
'Pray do not ask anything for any man at present.'
'It is not anything for any man.'
'Nor for any woman.'
'It is for a woman,--but one whom I think you would wish to
oblige.'
'Who is it?' Then she curtsied, smiling at him drolly, and put
her hand upon her breast. 'Something for you! What on earth can
you want that I can do for you?'
'Will you do it,--if it be reasonable?'
'If I think it reasonable, I certainly will do it.'
Then her manner changed altogether, and she became serious and
almost solemn. 'If, as I suppose, all the great places about her
Majesty be changed, I should like to be Mistress of the Robes.'
'You!' said he, almost startled out of his usual quiet demeanour.
'Why not? Is not my rank high enough?'
'You burden yourself with the intricacies and subserviences, with
the tedium and pomposities of the Court life! Cora, you do not
know what you are talking about, or what you are proposing for
yourself.'
'If I am willing to try to undertake a duty, why should I be
debarred from it any more than you?'
'Because I have put myself into a groove, and ground myself into
a mould, and clipped and pared and pinched myself all round,--
very ineffectually, as I fear,--to fit myself for this thing.
You have lived as free as air. You have disdained,--and though
I may have grumbled I have still been proud to see you disdain,--
to wrap yourself in the swaddling bandages of Court life. You
have ridiculed all those who have been near her Majesty as Court
ladies.'
'The individuals, Plantagenet, perhaps, but not the office. I am
getting older now, and I do not see why I should not begin a new
life.' She had been somewhat quelled by the unexpected energy,
and was at the moment hardly able to answer him with her usual
spirit.
'Do not think of it, my dear. You asked whether your rank was
high enough. It must be so, as there is, as it happens, none
higher. But your position, should it come to pass that your
husband is the head of Government, will be too high. I may say
that in no condition should I wish to my wife to be subject to
other restraint than that which is common to all married women.
I should not choose that she should have any duties unconnected
with our joint family and home. But as First Minister of the
Crown I would altogether object to her holding an office believed
to be at my disposal.' She looked at him with her large eyes
wide open, and then left him without a word. She had no other
way of showing her displeasure, for she knew that when he spoke
as he had spoken now all argument was unavailing.
The Duke remained an hour alone before he was joined by the other
Duke, during which he did not for a moment apply his mind to the
subject which might be thought to be most prominent in his
thoughts,--the filling up, namely, of a list of his new
government. All that he could do in that direction without
further assistance had been already done very easily. There were
four or five certain names,--names that is of certain political
friends, and three or four almost equally certain of men who had
been political enemies, but who would not clearly be asked to
join the ministry. Sir Gregory Grogram, the late Attorney-
General, would of course be asked to resume his place, but Sir
Timothy Beeswax, who was up to this moment Solicitor-General for
the Conservatives, would also be invited to retain that which he
held. Many details were known, not only to the two dukes who
were about to patch up the ministry between them, but to the
political world at large,--and where facts upon which the
newspapers were able to display their wonderful foresight and
general omniscience, with their usual confidence. And as to the
points which were in doubt,--whether or not, for instance, that
consistent old Tory, Sir Orlando Drought, should be asked to put
up with the Post-office or should be allowed to remain at the
Colonies,--the younger Duke did not care to trouble himself till
the elder should have come to his assistance. But his own
position and his questionable capacity for filling it,--that
occupied all his mind. If nominally first he would be really
first. Of so much it seemed to him that his honour required him
to assure himself. To be a faneant ruler was in direct
antagonism both to his conscience and to his predilections. To
call himself by a great name before the world, and then to be
something infinitely less than that name, would be to him a
degradation. But though he felt fixed as to that, he was by no
means assured as to that other point, which to most men firm in
their resolves as he was, and backed up as he had been by the
confidence of others, would be cause of small hesitation. He did
doubt his ability to fill that place which it would now be his
duty to occupy. He more than doubted. He told himself again and
again that there was wanting to him a certain noble capacity for
commanding support and homage from other men. With things and
facts he could deal, but human beings had not opened themselves
to him. But now it was too late! And yet,--as he said to his
wife,--to fail would break his heart! No ambition had prompted
him. He was sure of himself there. One only consideration had
forced him into this great danger, and that had been the
assurance of others that it was his manifest duty to encounter
it. And how there was clearly no escape,--no escape compatible
with that clean-handed truth from which it was not possible for
him to swerve. He might create difficulties in order that
through them a way might still be opened to him of restoring to
the Queen the commission which had been entrusted to him. He
might insist on this or that impossible concession. But the
memory of escape such as that would break his heart as surely as
the failure.
When the Duke was announced, he rose to greet his old friend
almost with fervour. 'It is a shame,' he said, 'to bring you out
so late. I ought to have gone to you.'
'Not at all. It is always the rule in these cases that the man
who has most to do should fix himself as well as he can where
others may be able to find him.' The Duke of St Bungay was an
old man between seventy and eighty, with hair nearly white, and
who on entering the room had to unfold himself out of various
coats and comforters. But he was in full possession not only of
his intellects but of his bodily power, showing, as many
politicians do show, that the cares of the nation may sit upon a
man's shoulders for many years without breaking or even bending
them. For the Duke had belonged to ministries nearly for the
last half century. As the chronicles have also dealt with him,
no further records of his past like shall now be given.
He had said something about the Queen, expressing gracious wishes
for the comfort of her Majesty in all these matters, something of
the inconvenience of these political journeys to and fro,
something also of the delicacy and difficulty of the operations
on hand which were enhanced by the necessity of bringing together
as cordial allies who had hitherto acted with bitter animosity
one to another, before the younger Duke said a word. 'We may as
well,' said the elder, 'make out some small provisional list, and
you can ask those you name to be with you early tomorrow. But
perhaps you have already made a list.'
'No indeed. I have not even had a pencil in my hand.'
'We may as well begin then,' said the elder facing the table when
he saw that his less-experienced companion made no attempt at
beginning.
'There is something horrible to me in the idea of writing down
men's names for such a work as this, just as boys at school used
to draw out the elevens for a cricket match.' The old stager
turned round and stared at the younger politician. 'The thing
itself is so momentous that one ought to have aid from heaven.'
Plantagenet Palliser was the last man from whom the Duke of St
Bungay would have expected romance at any time, and, least of
all, at such a time as this. 'Aid from heaven you may have,' he
said, 'by saying your prayers; and I don't doubt you ask for this
and all other things generally. But an angel won't come to tell
you who ought to be Chancellor of the Exchequer.'
'No angel will, and therefore I wish I could wash my hands of
it.' His old friend stared at him. 'It is like sacrilege to me,
attempting this without feeling one's own fitness for the work.
It unmans me,--this necessity of doing that which I know I
cannot do with fitting judgement.'
'You mind has been a little too hard at work to-day.'
'It hasn't been at work at all. I've had nothing to do, and have
been unable really to think of work. But I feel that chance
circumstances have put me into a position for which I am unfit,
and which yet I have been unable to avoid. How much better would
it be that you should do this alone,--you yourself.'
'Utterly out of the question. I do know and think that I always
have known my own powers. Neither has my aptitude in debate nor
my capacity for work justified me in looking to the premiership.
But that, forgive me, is now not worthy of consideration. It is
because you do work and can work, and because you have fitted
yourself for that continued course of lucid explanation which we
now call debate, that men on both sides have called upon you as
the best man to come forward in this difficulty. Excuse me, my
friend, again, if I say that I expect to find your manliness
equal to your capacity.'
'If I could only escape from it!'
'Psha;--nonsense!' said the Duke, getting up. 'There is such a
thing as conscience with so fine an edge that it will allow a man
to do nothing. You've got to serve your country. On such
assistance as I can give you you know that you may depend with
absolute assurance. Now let us get to work. I suppose you would
wish that I should take the chair at the Council.'
'Certainly;--of course,' said the Duke of Omnium, turning to the
table. The once practical suggestion had fixed him, and from
that moment he gave himself to the work in hand with all his
energies. It was not very difficult, nor did it take them a very
long time. If the future Prime Minister had not his names at his
fingers' ends, the future President of the Council had them.
Eight men were soon named whom it was thought well that the Duke
of Omnium should consult early in the morning as to their
willingness to fill certain places.
'Each one of them may have some other one or some two whom he may
insist on bringing with him,' said the elder Duke; 'and though of
course you cannot yield to the pressure in every such case, it
will be wise to allow yourself scope for some amount of
concession. You'll find they'll shake down after the usual
amount of resistance and compliance. No;--don't leave your
house to-morrow to see anybody unless it be Mr Daubney or Her
Majesty. I'll come to you at two, and if her Grace will give me
luncheon, I'll lunch with her. Good night, and don't think too
much of the bigness of the thing. I remember dear old Lord Brock
telling me how much more difficult it was to find a good coachman
than a good Secretary of State.'
The Duke of Omnium, as he sat thinking of things for the next
hour in his chair, succeeded in proving to himself that Lord
Brock never ought to have been Prime Minister of England after
having ventured to make so poor a joke on so solemn a subject.
CHAPTER 8
THE BEGINNING OF A NEW CAREER.
By the time that the Easter holidays were over,--holidays which
had been used so conveniently for the making of a new government,
--the work of getting a team together had been accomplished by
the united energy of the two dukes and other friends. The
filling up of the great places had been by no means so difficult
or so tedious,--nor indeed the cause of half so many heartburns,
--as the completion of the list of subordinates. Noblesse
oblige. The Secretaries of State, and the Chancellors, and the
First Lords, selected from this or the other party felt that the
eyes of mankind were upon them, and that it behoved them to
assume a virtue if they had it not. They were habitually
indifferent to self-exaltation, and allowed themselves to be
thrust into this or that unfitting role, professing that the
Queen's Government and the good of the country were their only
considerations. Lord Thrift made way for Sir Orlando Drought at
the Admiralty, because it was felt on all sides that Sir Orlando
could not join the new composite party without a high place. And
the same grace was shown in regard to Lord Drummond, who remained
at the Colonies, keeping the office to which he had lately been
transferred under Mr Daubney. And Sir Gregory Grogram said not a
word, whatever he may have thought, when he was told that Mr
Daubney's Lord Chancellor, Lord Ramsden, was to keep the seals.
Sir Gregory did, no doubt, think very much about it, for legal
offices have a signification differing much from that which
attaches itself to places simply political. A Lord Chancellor
becomes a peer, and on going out of office enjoys a large
pension. When the woolsack has been reached there comes an end
of doubt, and a beginning of ease. Sir Gregory was not a young
man, and this was a terrible blow. But he bore it manfully,
saying not a word when the Duke spoke to him; but he became
convinced from that moment that no more inefficient lawyer ever
sat upon the English bench, or a more presumptuous politician in
the British Parliament, than Lord Ramsden.
The real struggle, however, lay in the appropriate distribution
of the Rattlers, the Robys, the Fitzgibbons, and the Macphersons
among the subordinate offices of State. Mr Macpherson and Mr
Roby, with a host of others who had belonged to Mr Daubney, were
prepared, as they declared from the first, to lend their
assistance to the Duke. They had consulted Mr Daubney on the
subject, and Mr Daubney told them that their duty lay in that
direction. At the first blush of the matter the arrangement took
the form of a gracious tender from themselves to a statesman
called upon to act in very difficult circumstances,--and they
were thanked accordingly by the Duke, with something of real
cordial gratitude. But when the actual adjustment of things was
in hand, the Duke, having but little power of assuming a soft
countenance and using soft words while his heart was bitter, felt
on more than one occasion inclined to withdraw his thanks. He
was astounded not so much by the pretensions as by the unblushing
assertion of these pretensions in reference to places which he
had been innocent enough to think were always bestowed at any
rate without direct application. He had measured himself rightly
when he told the older Duke in one of those anxious conversations
which had been held before the attempt was made, that long as he
had been in office himself he did not know what was the way of
bestowing office. 'Two gentlemen have been here this morning,'
he said one day to the Duke of St Bungay, 'one on the heels of
the other, each assuring me not only that the whole stability of
the enterprise depends on my giving a certain office to him,--
but actually telling me to my face that I had promised it to
him!' The old statesman laughed. 'To be told within the same
half-hour by two men that I had made promises to each of them
inconsistent with each other.'
'Who were the two men?'
'Mr Rattler and Mr Roby.'
'I am assured that they are inseparable since the work has begun.
They always had a leaning to each other, and now I hear they pass
their time between the steps of the Carlton and Reform Clubs.'
'But what am I to do? One must be Patronage Secretary, no
doubt.'
'They're both good men in their way, you know.'
'But why do they come to me with their mouths open, like dogs
craving a bone? It used not to be so. Of course men were always
anxious for office as they are now.'
'Well; yes. We've heard of that before to-day, I think.'
'But I don't think any man ever ventured to ask Mr Mildmay.'
'Time has done much for him in consolidating his authority, and
perhaps the present world is less reticent in its eagerness than
it was in his younger days. I doubt, however, whether it is more
dishonest, and whether struggles were not made quite as
disgraceful to the strugglers as anything that is done now. You
can't alter the men, and you must use them.' The younger Duke
sat down and sighed over the degenerate patriotism of the age.
But at last even the Rattlers and Robys were fixed, if not
satisfied, and a complete list of the ministry appeared in all
the newspapers. Though the thing had been long a-doing, still it
had come suddenly,--so that the first proposition to form a
coalition ministry, the newspapers had hardly known whether to
assist or to oppose the scheme. There was no doubt, in the minds
of all these editors and contributors, the teaching of a
tradition that coalitions of this kind have been generally
feeble, sometimes disastrous, and on occasions, even disgraceful.
When a man, perhaps through a long political life, has bound
himself to a certain code of opinions, how can he change that
code at a moment? And when at the same moment, together with the
change, he secures power, patronage, and pay, how shall the
public voice absolve him? But then again, men, who have by the
work of their lives grown into a certain position in the country,
and have unconsciously but not therefore less actually made
themselves indispensable either to this side of politics, or to
that, cannot free themselves altogether from the responsibility
of managing them when a period comes such as that now reached.
This also the newspapers perceived, and having, since the
commencement of the session been very loud in exposing the
disgraceful collapse of government affairs, could hardly refuse
their support to any attempt at a feasible arrangement. When it
was first known that the Duke of Omnium had consented to make the
attempt, they had both on one side and the other been loud in his
praise, going so far as to say that he was the only man in
England who could do the work. It was probably this
encouragement which had enabled the new Premier to go on with an
undertaking which was personally distasteful to him, and for
which from day to day he believed himself to be less and less
fit. But when the newspapers told him that he was the only man
for the occasion, how could he be justified in crediting himself
in preference to them?
The work in Parliament began under the new auspices with great
tranquillity. That there would soon come causes of hot blood,--
the English Church, the county suffrage, the income tax, and
further education questions,--all men knew who knew anything.
But for the moment, for the months even, perhaps for the session,
there was to be peace, with full latitude for the performance of
routine duties. There was so to say no opposition, and at first
it seemed that one special bench in the House of Commons would
remain unoccupied. But after a day or two,--on one which Mr
Daubney had been seen sitting just below the gangway,--that
gentleman returned to the place usually held by the Prime
Minister's rival, saying with a smile that it might be for the
convenience of the House that the seat should be utilized. Mr
Gresham, at this time, had with declared purpose, asked and
obtained the Speaker's leave of absence, and was abroad. Who
should lead the House? That had been a great question, caused by
the fact that the Prime Minister was in the House of Lords;--and
what office should the leader hold? Mr Monk had consented to
take the Exchequer, but the right to sit opposite to the Treasure
Box and to consider himself for the time the principal spirit in
that chamber was at last assigned to Sir Orlando Drought. 'It
will never do,' said Mr Rattler to Mr Roby. 'I don't mean to say
anything against Drought, who had always been a very useful man
to your party;--but he lacks something of the position.'
'The fact is,' said Roby, 'that we've trusted to two men so long
that we don't know how to suppose anyone else big enough to fill
their places. Monk wouldn't have done. The House doesn't care
about Monk.'
'I always thought it should have been Wilson, and so I told the
Duke. He had an idea that it should be one of your men.'
'I think he's right there,' said Roby. 'There ought to be
something like a fair division. Individuals might be content,
but the party would be dissatisfied. For myself, I'd have sooner
stayed out as an independent member, but Daubney said that he
thought I was bound to make myself useful.'
'I told the Duke from the beginning,' said Rattler, 'that I
didn't think that I could be of any service to him. Of course, I
would support him, but I had been too thoroughly a party man for
a new movement of this kind. But he said just the same?--that
he considered I was bound to join him. I asked Gresham, and when
Gresham said so too, of course I had no help for it.'
Neither of these excellent public servants had told a lie in
this. Some such conversations as those reported had passed;--
but a man doesn't lie when he exaggerates an emphasis, or even
when he gives by a tone a meaning to a man's words exactly
opposite to that which another tone would convey. Or, if he does
lie in doing so, he does not know that he lies. Mr Rattler had
gone back to his old office at the Treasury and Mr Roby had been
forced to content himself with the Secretaryship at the
Admiralty. But, as the old Duke had said, they were close
friends, and prepared to fight together any battle which might
keep them in the present position.
Many of the cares of office the Prime Minister did succeed in
shuffling off altogether on to the shoulders of his elder friend.
He would not concern himself with the appointment of ladies,
about whom he said he knew nothing, and as to whose fitness and
claims he professed himself to be as ignorant as the office
messenger. The offers were of course made in the usual form, as
though coming direct from the Queen, through the Prime Minister;
--but the selections were in truth effected by the old Duke in
council with--an illustrious personage. The matter affected our
Duke,--only in so far as he could get out of his mind that
strange application from his own wife. 'That she should have
even dreamed of it!' he would say to himself, not yet having
acquired sufficient experience of his fellow creatures to be
aware how wonderfully temptations will affect even those who
appear to be least subject to them. The town horse, used to
gaudy trappings, no doubt despises the work of his country
brother; but yet, now and again, there comes upon him a sudden
desire to plough. The desire for ploughing had come upon the
Duchess, but the Duke could not understand it.
He perceived, however, in spite of the multiplicity of his
official work, that his refusal sat heavily on his wife's breast,
and that, though she spoke no further word, she brooded over her
injury. And his heart was sad within him when he thought he had
vexed her,--loving her as he did with all his heart, but with a
heart that was never demonstrative. When she was unhappy he was
miserable, though he would hardly know the cause of his misery.
Her ridicule and raillery he could bear, though they stung him;
but her sorrow, if ever she were sorrowful, or her sullenness, if
ever she were sullen, upset him altogether. He was in truth so
soft of heart that he could not bear the discomfort of the one
person in the world who seemed to him to be near to him. He had
expressly asked her for her sympathy for the business he had on
hand,--thereby going much beyond his usual coldness of manner.
She, with an eagerness which might have been expected from her,
had promised that she would slave for him, if slavery were
necessary. Then she had made her request, had been refused, and
was now moody. 'The Duchess of ------ is to be Mistress of The
Robes,' he said to her one day. He had gone to her, up to her
own room, before he dressed for dinner, having devoted much more
time that as Prime Minister he ought to have done to a resolution
that he would make things straight with her, and to the best way
of doing it.
'So I am told. She ought to know her away about the place, as I
remember she was at the same work when I was a girl of eleven.'
'That's not so very long ago, Cora.'
'Silverbridge is older now than I was then, and I think that
makes it a very long time ago.' Lord Silverbridge was the Duke's
eldest son.
'But what does it matter? If she began her career at the time of
George the Fourth, what is it to you?'
'Nothing on earth,--only that she did in truth begin her career
in the time of George the Third. I'm sure she's nearer sixty
than fifty.'
'I'm glad to see you remember your dates so well.'
'It's a pity she should not remember hers in the ways she
dresses,' said the Duchess.
This was marvellous to him,--that his wife, who as Lady Glencora
Palliser had been so conspicuous for a wild disregard of social
rules as to be looked upon by many as an enemy of her own class,
should be so depressed by not being allowed to be the Queen's
head servant as to descend to personal invective! 'I'm afraid,'
said he, attempting to smile, 'that it won't come within the
compass of my office to effect or even to propose any radical
change in her Grace's apparel. But don't you think that you and
I can afford to ignore all that?'
'I can certainly. She may be an antiquated Eve for me.'
'I hope, Cora, you are not still disappointed because I did not
agree with you when you spoke about the place for yourself.'
'Not because you did not agree with me,--but because you did not
think me fit to be trusted with any judgement of my own. I don't
know why I'm always to be looked upon as different from other
women,--as though I were half a savage.'
'You are what you made yourself, and I have always rejoiced that
you are as you are, fresh, untrammelled, without many prejudices
which afflict other ladies, and free from bonds by which they are
cramped and confined. Of course such a turn of character is
subject to certain dangers of its own.'
'There is no doubt about the dangers. The chances are that when
I see her Grace, I shall tell her what I think about her.'
'You will I am sure say nothing unkind to a lady who is supposed
to be in the place she now fills by my authority. But do not let
us quarrel about an old woman.'
'I won't quarrel with you even about a young one.'
'I cannot be at ease within myself while I think you are
resenting my refusal. You do not know how constantly I carry you
about with me.'
'You carry a very unnecessary burden then,' she said. But he
could tell at once from the altered tone of voice, and from the
light of her eye as he glanced into her face, that her anger
about 'The Robes' was appeased.
'I have done as you have asked about a friend of yours,' he said.
This occurred just before the final and perfected list of the new
men had appeared in all the newspapers.
'What friend?'
'Mr Finn is to go to Ireland.'
'Go to Ireland!--How do you mean?'
'It is looked upon as being a very great promotion. Indeed, I am
told that he is considered to be the luckiest man in all the
scramble.'
'You don't mean as Chief Secretary?'
'Yes, I do. He certainly couldn't go as Lord Lieutenant.'
'But they said that Barrington Erle was going to Ireland.'
'Well; yes. I don't know that you'd be interested by all the ins
and outs of it. But Mr Erle declined. It seems that Mr Erle is
after all the one man in Parliament modest enough not to consider
himself to be fit for any place that can be offered to him.'
'Poor Barrington! He does not like the idea of crossing the
Channel so often. I quite sympathize with him. And so Phineas
is to be Secretary for Ireland! Not in the Cabinet?'
'No.--not in the Cabinet. It is not by any means usual that he
should be.'
'That is promotion, and I'm glad! Poor Phineas! I hope they
won't murder him, or anything of that kind. They do murder
people, you know, sometimes.'
'He's an Irishman himself.'
'That just the reason why they should. He must pass up with that
of course. I wonder whether she'll like going. They'll be able
to spend money, which they always like, over there. He comes
backwards and forwards every week,--doesn't he?'
'Not quite that, I believe.'
'I shall miss her, if she has to stay away so long. I know you
don't like her.'
'I do like her. She has always behaved well, both to me and to
my uncle.'
'She was an angel to him,--and to you too, if you only knew it.
I dare say you're sending him to Ireland so as to get her away
from me.' This she said with a smile, as though not meaning it
altogether, but yet half meaning it.
'I have asked him to undertake the office,' said the Duke
solemnly, 'because I am told he is fit for it. But I did have
some pleasure in proposing it to him because I thought it would
please you.'
'It does please me, and I won't be cross any more, and the
Duchess of -- may wear her clothes just as she pleases, or go without
them. And as for Mrs Finn, I don't see why she should be with
him always when he goes. You can quite understand how necessary
she is to me. But she is in truth the only woman in London to
whom I can say what I think. And it is a comfort, you know, to
have someone.'
In this way the domestic peace of the Prime Minister was
readjusted, and that sympathy and co-operation for which he had
first asked was accorded to him. It may be a question whether on
the whole the Duchess did not work harder than he did. She did
not at first dare to expound to him those grand ideas which she
had conceived in regard to magnificence and hospitality. She
said nothing of any extraordinary expenditure of money. But she
set herself to work after her own fashion, making to him
suggestions as to dinners and evening receptions, to which he
objected only on the score of time. 'You must eat your dinner
somewhere,' she said, 'and you need only come in just before we
sit down, and go into your room if you please without coming
upstairs at all. I can at any rate do that part of it for you.'
And she did do that part of it with marvellous energy all through
the month of May,--so that by the end of the month, within six
weeks of the time at which she first heard of the Coalition
Ministry, all the world had begun to talk of the Prime Minister's
dinners, and of the receptions given by the Prime Minister's
wife.
CHAPTER 9
MRS DICK'S DINNER PARTY----NO 1.
Our readers must not forget the troubles of poor Emily Wharton
amidst the gorgeous festivities of the new Prime Minister.
Throughout April and May she did not once see Ferdinand Lopez.
It may be remembered that on the night when the matter was
discussed between her and her father, she promised him that she
would not do so without his permission,--saying, however, at the
same time very openly that her happiness depended on such
permission being given to her. For two or three weeks not a word
further was said between her and her father on the subject, and
he had endeavoured to banish the subject from his mind,--feeling
no doubt that if nothing further were ever said it would be so
much the better. But then his daughter referred to the matter,
very plainly, with a simple question, and without disguise of her
own feeling, but still in a manner which he could not bring
himself to rebuke. 'Aunt Harriet has asked me once or twice to
go there of an evening, when you have been out. I have declined
because I thought Mr Lopez would be there. Must I tell her that
I am not to meet Mr Lopez, papa?'
'If she has asked him there on purpose to throw him in your way,
I shall think very badly of her.'
'But he has been in the habit of being there, papa. Of course if
you are decided about this, it is better that I should not see
him.'
'Did I not tell you that I was decided?'
'You said you would make some further inquiry, and speak to me
again.' Now Mr Wharton had made inquiry, but had learned nothing
to reassure himself;--neither had been able to learn any fact,
putting his finger on which he could point out to his daughter
clearly that the marriage would be unsuitable for her. Of the
man's ability and position, as certainly also of his manners, the
world at large seemed to speak well. He had been black-balled at
two clubs, but apparently without defined reason. He lived as
though he possessed a handsome income, and yet was in no degree
fast or flashy. He was supposed to be an intimate friend of Mr
Mills Happerton, one of the partners in the world-famous
commercial house of Hunky and Sons, which dealt in millions.
Indeed there had been at once time a rumour that he was going to
be taken into the house of Hunky and Sons as a junior partner.
It was evident that many people had been favourably impressed by
his outward demeanour, by his mode of talk, and by his way of
living. But no one knew anything about him. With regard to his
material position, Mr Wharton could of course ask direct
questions if he pleased, and require evidence as to his alleged
property. But he felt that by doing so he would abandon his
right to object to the man as being a Portuguese stranger, and he
did not wish to have Ferdinand Lopez as son-in-law, even though
he should be a partner in Hunky and Sons, and able to maintain a
gorgeous palace at South Kensington.
'I have made inquiry.'
'Well, papa.'
'I don't know anything about him. Nobody knows anything about
him.'
'Could you not ask him yourself anything you want to know? If I
might see him I would ask him.'
'That would not do at all.'
'It comes to this, papa, that I am to sever myself from a man to
whom I am attached, and who you must admit that I have been
allowed to meet from day to day with no caution that his intimacy
was unpleasant to you, because he is called,--Lopez.'
'It isn't that at all. There are English people of that name,
but he isn't an Englishman.'
'Of course, if you say so, papa, it must be so. I have told Aunt
Harriet that I consider myself prohibited from meeting Mr Lopez
by what you have said; but I think, papa, you are a little
cruel to me.'
'Cruel to you!' said Mr Wharton, almost bursting into tears.
'I am ready to obey as a child;--but, not being a child, I think
I ought to have a reason.' To this Mr Wharton made no further
immediate answer, but pulled his hair, and shuffled his feet
about, and then escaped out of the room.
A few days afterwards his sister-in-law attached him. 'Are we to
understand, Mr Wharton, that Emily is not to meet Mr Lopez again?
It makes it very unpleasant, because he has been an intimate at
our house.'
'I never said word about her not meeting him. Of course I do not
wish that any meeting should be contrived between them.'
'As it stands now it is prejudicial to her. Of course it cannot
but be observed, and it so odd that a young lady should be
forbidden to meet a certain man. It looks so unpleasant for her,
--as though she had misbehaved herself.'
'I have never thought so for a moment.'
'Of course you have not. How could you have thought so, Mr
Wharton?'
'I say that I never did.'
'What must he think when he knows,--as of course he does know,---
that she has been forbidden to meet him? It must make him fancy
that he is very much made of. All that is so very bad for a
girl! Indeed it is, Mr Wharton.' Of course there was absolute
dishonesty in all this on the part of Mrs Roby. She was true
enough to Emily's lover,--too true to him; but she was false to
Emily's father. If Emily would have yielded to her she would
have arranged meetings at her own house between the lovers
altogether in opposition to the father. Nevertheless, there was
a show of reason about what she said which Mr Wharton was unable
to overcome. And at the same time there was a reality about the
girl's sorrow which overcame him. He had never hitherto
consulted anyone about anything in his family, having always
found his own information and intellect sufficient for his own
affairs. But now he felt grievously in want of some pillar,---
some female pillar,--on which he could lean. He did not know
all Mrs Roby's iniquities; but still he felt that she was not the
pillar of which he was in need. There was no such pillar for his
use, and he was driven to acknowledge to himself that in this
distressing position he must be guided by his own strength, and
his own lights. He thought it all out as well as he could in his
own chamber, allowing his book or brief to lie idle beside him
for many a half-hour. But he was much puzzled both as to the
extent of his own authority and the manner in which it should be
used. He certainly had not desired his daughter not to meet the
man. He could understand that unless some affront had been
offered such an edict enforced as to the conduct of a young lady
would induce all her acquaintance to suppose that she was either
very much in love or else she was very prone to misbehave
herself. He feared, indeed, that she was very much in love, but
it would not be prudent to tell her secret to all the world.
Perhaps it would be better that she should meet him, always with
the understanding that she was not to accept from him any
peculiar attention. If she would be obedient in one particular,
she would probably be so in the other, and, indeed, he did not at
all doubt her obedience. She would obey, but would take care to
show him that she was made miserable by obeying. He began to
foresee that he had a bad time before him.
And then as he still sat idle, thinking of it all, his mind
wandered off to another view of the subject. Could he be happy,
or even comfortable, if she were unhappy? Of course he
endeavoured to convince himself that if he were bold, determined
and dictatorial with her, it would only be in order that her
future happiness might be secured. A parent is often bound to
disregard the immediate comfort of a child. But then was he sure
that he was right? He of course had his own way of looking at
life, but was it reasonable that he should force his girl to look
at things with his eyes? The man was distasteful to him as being
unlike his idea of an English gentleman, and as being without
those far-reaching fibres and roots by which he thought that the
solidity and stability of a human tree should be assured. But
the world was changing around him every day. Royalty was
marrying out of its degree. Peers' sons were looking only for
money. And, more than that, peers' daughters were bestowing
themselves on Jews and shopkeepers. Had he not better make the
usual inquiry about the man's means, and, if satisfied on that
head, let the girl do as she would? Added to all this, there was
growing on him a feeling that ultimately youth would as usual
triumph over age, and that he would be beaten. If that were so,
why worry himself, or why worry her?
On the day after Mrs Roby's attack upon him he again saw that
lady, having on this occasion sent round to ask her to come to
him. 'I want you to understand that I put no embargo on Emily as
to meeting Mr Lopez. I can trust her fully. I do not wish her
to encourage his attentions, but I by no means wish her to avoid
him.'
'Am I to tell Emily what you say?'
'I will tell her myself. I think it better to say as much to
you, as you seemed to be embarrassed by the fear that they might
happen to see each other in your drawing-room.'
'It was rather awkward, wasn't it?'
'I have spoken to you now because you seemed to think so.' His
manner to her was not very pleasant, but Mrs Roby had known him
for many years, and did not care very much for his manner. She
had an object to gain, and could put up with a good deal for the
sake of her object.
'Very well. Then I shall know how to act. But, Mr Wharton, I
must say this, you know Emily has a will of her own, and you must
not hold me responsible for anything that may occur.' As soon as
he heard this he almost resolved to withdraw the concession he
had made,--but he did not do so.
Very soon after this there came a special invitation from Mr and
Mrs Roby, asking the Whartons, father and daughter, to dine with
them round the corner. It was quite a special invitation,
because it came in the form of a card,--which was unusual
between the two families. But the dinner was too, in some
degree, a special dinner,--as Emily was enabled to explain to
her father, the whole speciality having been fully detailed to
herself by her aunt. Mr Roby, whose belongings were not
generally aristocratic, had one great connection with whom, after
many years of quarrelling, he had lately come into amity. This
was his half-brother, considerably older than himself, and was no
other than that Mr Roby who was now Secretary to the Admiralty,
and who in the last Conservative Government had been one of the
Secretaries of the Treasury. The oldest Mr Roby of all, now long
since gathered to his fathers, had had two wives and two sons.
The elder son had not been left as well off as friends, or
perhaps as he himself, could have wished. But he had risen in
the world by his wits, had made his way into Parliament, and had
become, as all readers of these chronicles know, a staff of great
strength to his party. But he had always been a poor man. His
periods of office had been much shorter than those of his friend
Rattler, and his other sources of income had not been certain.
His younger half-brother, who, as far as the great world was
concerned, had none of his elder brother's advantages, had been
endowed with some fortune from his mother, and,--in an evil hour
for both of them,--had lent the politician money. As one
consequence of this transaction, they had not spoken to each
other for years. On this quarrel, Mrs Roby was always harping
with her own husband,--not taking his part. Her Roby, her Dick,
had indeed the means of supporting her with fair comfort, but had,
of his own, no power of introducing her to that sort of society
for which her soul craved. But Mr Thomas Roby was a great man--
though unfortunately poor,--and moved in high circles. Because
they had lent their money,--which was no doubt lost for ever,--
why should they also lose the advantages of such a connection?
Would it not be wiser rather to take the debt as a basis whereon
to found a claim for special fraternal observation and kindred
intercourse? Dick, who was fond of his money, would not for a
long time look at the matter in this light, but harassed his
brother from time to time by applications which were quite
useless, and which by the acerbity of their language altogether
shut Mrs Roby from the good things which might have accrued to
her from so distinguished a brother-in-law. But when it came to
pass that Thomas Roby was confirmed in office by the coalition
which has been mentioned, Mrs Dick became very energetic. She
went herself to the official hero, and told him how desirous she
was of peace. Nothing more should be said about the money,--at
any rate for the present. Let brothers be brothers. And so it
came to pass that the Secretary to the Admiralty, with his wife,
were to dine at Berkeley Street, and that Mr Wharton was asked to
meet them.
'I don't particularly want to meet Mr Thomas Roby,' the old
barrister said.
'They want you to come,' said Emily, 'because there has been some
family reconciliation. You usually do go once or twice a year.'
'I suppose it may as well be done,' said Mr Wharton.
'I think, papa, that they mean to ask Mr Lopez,' said Emily
demurely.
'I told you before that I don't want to have you banished from
your aunt's home by any man,' said the father. So the matter was
settled, and the invitation was accepted. This was just at the
end of May, at which time people were beginning to say that the
coalition was a success, and some wise men to predict that at
least fortuitous parliamentary atoms had so come together by
accidental connection, that a ministry had been formed which
might endure for a dozen years. Indeed there was no reason why
there should be any end to a ministry built on such a foundation.
Of course this was very comfortable to such men as Mr Roby, so
that the Admiralty Secretary when he entered his sister-in-law's
drawing-room was suffused with that rosy hue of human bliss which
a feeling of triumph bestows. 'Yes,' said he, in answer to some
would-be facetious remark from his brother, 'I think we have
weathered that storm pretty well. It does seem rather odd, my
sitting cheek by jowl with Mr Monk and gentlemen of that kidney;
but they don't bite. I've got one of our own set at the head of
our own office, and he leads the House. I think upon the whole
we've got a little the best of it.' This was listened to by Mr
Wharton with great disgust,--for Mr Wharton was a Tory of the
old school, who hated compromises, and abhorred in his heart the
clash of politicians to whom politics were a profession rather
than a creed.
Mr Roby, senior, having escaped from the House, was of course the
last, and had indeed kept all the other guests waiting half-an-
hour,--as becomes a parliamentary magnate in the heat of the
session. Mr Wharton, who had been early, saw all the other
guests arrive, among them Mr Ferdinand Lopez. There was also Mr
Mills Happerton,--partner in Hunky and Sons,--with his wife,
respecting whom Mr Wharton at once concluded that he was there as
being the friend of Ferdinand Lopez. If so, how much influence
must Ferdinand Lopez have in that house! Nevertheless, Mr Mills
Happerton was in his way a great man, and a credit to Mrs Roby.
And there was Sir Damask and Lady Monogram, who were people
moving in quite the first circles. Sir Damask shot pigeons, and
so did also Dick Roby,--whence had perhaps arisen an intimacy.
But Lady Monogram was not at all the person to dine with Mrs Dick
Roby without other cause than this. But a great official among
one's acquaintance can do so much for one! It was probable that
Lady Monogram's presence was among the first fruits of the happy
family reconciliation that had taken place. Then there was Mrs
Leslie, a pretty widow, rather poor, who was glad to receive
civilities from Mrs Roby, and was Emily Wharton's pet aversion.
Mrs Leslie had said impertinent things to her about Ferdinand
Lopez, and she had snubbed Mrs Leslie. But Mrs Leslie was
serviceable to Mrs Roby, and had now been asked to her great
dinner party.
But the two most illustrious guests have not yet been mentioned.
Mrs Roby had secured a lord,--an absolute peer of Parliament.
This was no less than Lord Mongrober, whose father had been a
great judge in the early part of the century, and had been made a
peer. The Mongrober estates were not supposed to be large, nor
was the Mongrober influence at this time extensive. But this
nobleman was seen about a good deal in society when the dinners
given were supposed to be worth eating. He was a fat, silent,
red-faced, elderly gentleman, who said very little, and who when
he did speak seemed always to be in an ill-humour. He would now
and then make ill-natured remarks about his friends' wines, as
suggesting '68 when a man would boast of his '48 claret; and when
costly dainties were supplied for his use, would remark that such
and such a dish was very well at some other time of the year. So
that ladies attentive to their tables and hosts proud of their
cellars would almost shake in their shoes before Lord Mongrober.
And it may also be said that Lord Mongrober never gave any chance
of retaliation by return dinners. There lived not the man or
woman who had dined with Lord Mongrober. But yet the Robys of
London were glad to entertain him; and the Mrs Robys, when he was
coming, would urge their cooks to superhuman energies by the
mention of his name.
And there was Lady Eustace! Of Lady Eustace it was impossible to
say whether her beauty, her wit, her wealth, or the remarkable
history of her past life, most recommended her to such hosts and
hostesses as Mr and Mrs Roby. As her history may already be
known to some, no details of it shall be repeated here. At this
moment she was free from all marital persecution, and was very
much run after by a certain set in society. There were others
again who declared that no decent man or woman ought to meet her.
On the score of lovers there was really little or nothing to be
said against her; but she had implicated herself in an
unfortunate second marriage, and then there was the old story
about the jewels! But there was no doubt about her money and her
good looks, and some considered her to be clever. These
completed the list of Mrs Roby's great dinner party.
Mr Wharton, who had arrived early, could not but take notice that
Lopez, who soon followed him into the room, had at once fallen
into conversation with Emily, as though there had never been any
difficulty in the matter. The father, standing on the rug and
pretending to answer the remarks made to him by Dick Roby, could
see that Emily said but little. The man, however, was so much at
his ease that there was no necessity for her to exert herself.
Mr Wharton hated him for being at his ease. Had he appeared to
have been rebuffed by the circumstances of his position the
prejudices of the old man would have been lessened. By degrees
the guests came. Lord Mongrober stood also on the rug dumb, with
a look of intense impatience for his food, hardly ever
condescending to answer the little attempts at conversation made
by Mrs Dick. Lady Eustace gushed into the room, kissing Mrs Dick
and afterwards kissing her great friend of the moment, Mrs
Leslie, who followed. She then looked as though she meant to
kiss Lord Mongrober, whom she playfully and almost familiarly
addressed. But Lord Mongrober only grunted. Then came Sir
Damask and Lady Monogram, and Dick at once began about his
pigeons. Sir Damask, who was the most good-natured man in the
world, interested himself at once and became energetic; but Lady
Monogram looked around the room carefully, and seeing Lady
Eustace turned up her nose, nor did she care much for meeting
Lord Mongrober. If she had been taken in as to the Admiralty
Robys, then would she let the junior Robys know what she thought
about it. Mills Happerton, with his wife, caused the frown on
Lady Monogram's brow to loosen itself a little, for, so great was
the wealth and power of the house of Hunky and Sons, that Mr
Mills Happerton was no doubt a feature at any dinner party. Then
came the Admiralty Secretary with his wife, and the order for
dinner was given.
CHAPTER 10
MRS DICK'S DINNER PARTY--NO 2.
Dick walked downstairs with Lady Monogram. There had been some
doubt whether of right he should not have taken Lady Eustace, but
it was held by Mrs Dick that her ladyship had somewhat impaired
her rights by the eccentricities of her career, and also that she
would amiably pardon any little wrongdoing against her of that
kind,--whereas Lady Monogram was a person much to be considered.
Then followed Sir Damask with Lady Eustace. They seemed to be
paired so well together that there could be no doubt about them.
The ministerial Roby, who was really the hero of the night, took
Mrs Happerton, and our friend Mr Wharton took the Secretary's
wife. All that had been easy,--so easy that fate had goodnaturedly
arranged things which are sometimes difficult of
management. But then there came an embarrassment. Of course it
would in a usual way be right that a married man as was Mr
Happerton should be assigned to the widow Mrs Leslie, and that
the only two 'young' people,--in the usual sense of the word,--
should go down to dinner together. But Mrs Roby was at first
afraid of Mr Wharton, and planned it otherwise. When, however,
the last moment came she plucked up courage, gave Mrs Leslie to
the great commercial man, and with a brave smile asked Mr Lopez
to give his arm to the lady he loved. It is sometimes so hard to
manage these 'little things', said she to Lord Mongrober as she
put her hand upon his arm. His lordship had been kept standing
in that odious drawing-room for more than half-an-hour waiting
for a man whom he regarded as a poor Treasury hack, and was by no
means in a good humour. Dick Roby's wine was no doubt good, but
he was not prepared to purchase it at such a price as this.
'Things always get confused when you have waited an hour for
anyone,' he said.
'What can you do, you know, when the House is sitting?' said the
lady apologetically. 'Of course you lords can get away, but then
you have nothing to do.'
Lord Mongrober grunted, meaning to imply by his grunt that anyone
would be very much mistaken who supposed that he had any work to
do because he was a peer of Parliament.
Lopez and Emily were seated next to each other, and immediately
opposite to them was Mr Wharton. Certainly nothing fraudulent
had been intended on this occasion,--or it would have been
arranged that the father should sit on the same side of the table
with the lover, so that he should see nothing of what was going
on. But it seemed to Mr Wharton as though he had been positively
swindled by his sister-in-law. There they sat opposite to him,
talking to each other apparently with thoroughly mutual
confidence, the very two persons whom he most especially desired
to keep apart. He had not a word to say to either of the ladies
near him. He endeavoured to keep his eyes away from his daughter
as much as possible, and to divert his ears from their
conversation;--but he could not but look and he could not but
listen. Not that he really heard a sentence. Emily's voice
hardly reached him, and Lopez understood the game he was playing
much too well to allow his voice to travel. And he looked as
though his position were the most commonplace in the world, and
as though he had nothing of more than ordinary interest to say to
his neighbour. Mr Wharton, as he sat there, almost made up his
mind that he would leave his practice, give up his chambers,
abandon even his club, and take his daughter at once to,--to,---
it did not matter where, so that the place should be very distant
from Manchester Square. There could be no other remedy for this
evil.
Lopez, though he talked throughout the whole of dinner,--turning
sometimes indeed to Mrs Leslie who sat at his left hand,--said
very little that all the world might not have heard. But he did
say one such word. 'It has been dreary to me, the last month!'
Emily of course had no answer to make to this. She could not
tell him that her desolation had been infinitely worse than his,
and that she sometimes felt as though her very heart would break.
'I wonder whether it must always be like this with me,' he said,
--and then he went back to the theatres and other ordinary
conversation.
'I suppose you've got to the bottom of that champagne you used to
have,' said Lord Mongrober roaring across the table to his host,
holding his glass in his hand and with strong marks of
disapprobation on his face.
'The very same wine as we were drinking when your lordship last
did me the honour of dining here,' said Dick. Lord Mongrober
raised his eyebrows, shook his head and put down the glass.
'Shall we try another bottle?' asked Mrs Dick with solicitude.
'Oh, no;--it'd be all the same, I know. I'll just take a little
dry sherry if you have it.' The man came with the decanter.
'No, dry sherry;--dry sherry,' said his lordship. The man was
confounded, Mrs Dick was at her wits' ends, and everything was in
confusion. Lord Mongrober was not the man to be kept waiting by
a government subordinate without exacting some penalty for such
ill-treatment.
'His lordship is a little out of sorts,' whispered Dick to Lady
Monogram.
'Very much out of sorts, it seems.'
'And the worst of it is, there isn't a better glass of wine in
London, and his lordship knows it.'
'I suppose that's what he comes for,' said Lady Monogram, being
quite as uncivil in her way as the nobleman.
'He's like a good many others. He knows where he can get a good
dinner. After all, there's no attraction like that. Of course,
a hansome woman won't admit that, Lady Monogram.'
'I will not admit it, at any rate, Mr Roby.'
'But I don't doubt Monogram is as careful as anyone else to get
the best cook he can, and takes a good deal of trouble about his
wine too. Mongrober is very unfair about that champagne. It
came out of Madame Cliquot's cellars before the war, and I gave
Sprott and Burlinghammer 100s for it.'
'Indeed!'
'I don't think there are a dozen men in London can give you such
a glass of wine as that. What do you say about the champagne,
Monogram?'
'Very tidy wine,' said Sir Damask.
'I should think it is. I gave 100s for it before the war. His
lordship's got a fit of the gout coming, I suppose.'
But Sir Damask was engaged with his neighbour Lady Eustace. 'Of
all things I should so like to see a pigeon match,' said Lady
Eustace. 'I have heard about them all my life. Only I suppose
it isn't quite proper for a lady.'
'Oh, dear, yes.'
'The darling little pigeons! They do sometimes escape, don't
they? I hope they escape sometimes. I'll go any day you'll make
up a party,--if Lady Monogram will join us.' Sir Damask said
that he would arrange it, making up his mind, however, at the
same time, that this last stipulation, if insisted on, would make
the thing impracticable.
Roby the ministerialist, sitting at the end of the table between
his sister-in-law and Mrs Happerton, was very confidential
respecting the Government and parliamentary affairs in general.
'Yes, indeed;--of course it's a coalition, but I don't see why
we shouldn't go on very well. As to the Duke, I've always had
the greatest possible respect for him. The truth is, there's
nothing special to be done at the present moment, and there's no
reason why we shouldn't agree and divide the good things between
us. The Duke has got some craze of his own about decimal
coinage. He'll amuse himself with that; but it won't come to
anything, and it won't hurt us.'
'Isn't the Duchess giving a great many parties?' asked Mrs
Happerton.
'Well;---yes. That kind of thing used to be done in old Lady
Brock's time, and the Duchess is repeating it. There's no end to
their money, you know. But it's rather a bore for the persons
who have to go.' The ministerial Roby knew well how he would
make his sister-in-law's mouth water by such an allusion, as this
to the great privilege of entering the Prime Minister's mansion
in Carlton Terrace.
'I suppose you in the Government are always asked.'
'We are expected to go too, and are watched pretty close. Lady
Glen, as we used to call her, has the eyes of Argus. And of
course we who used to be on the other side are especially bound
to pay her observance.'
'Don't you like the Duchess?' asked Mrs Happerton.
'Oh yes;--I like her very well. She's mad, you know,--mad as a
hatter;--and no one can ever guess what freak may come next.
One always feels that she'll do something sooner or later that
will startle all the world.'
'There was a queer story once,--wasn't there?' asked Mrs Dick.
'I never quite believed that,' said Roby. 'It was something
about some lover she had before she was married. She went off to
Switzerland. But the Duke,--he was Mr Palliser then,--followed
her very soon and it all came right.'
'When ladies are going to be duchesses, things do come right,
don't they?' said Mrs Happerton.
On the other side of Mrs Happerton was Mr Wharton, quite unable
to talk to his right-hand neighbour, the Secretary's wife. The
elder Mrs Roby had not, indeed, much to say for herself, and he
during the whole dinner was in misery. He had resolved that
there should be no intimacy of any kind between his daughter and
Ferdinand Lopez,--nothing more than the merest acquaintance, and
there they were, talking together before his very eyes, with more
evident signs of understanding each other than were exhibited by
any other two persons at the table. And yet he had no just
ground of complaint against either of them. If people dine
together at the same house, it may of course happen that they
shall sit next to each other. And if people sit next to each
other at dinner, it is expected that they shall talk. Nobody
could accuse Emily of flirting; but then she was a girl who under
no circumstances would condescend to flirt. But she had declared
boldly to her father that she loved this man, and there she was
in close conversation with him! Would it not be better for him
to give up any further trouble, and let her marry the man? She
would certainly do so sooner or later.
When the ladies went upstairs that misery was over for a time,
but Mr Wharton was still not happy. Dick came round and took his
wife's chair so that he sat between the lord and his brother.
Lopez and Happerton fell into City conversation, and Sir Damask
tried to amuse himself with Mr Wharton. But the task was
hopeless,--as it always is when the elements of the party have
been ill-mixed. Mr Wharton had not even heard of the Aldershot
coach which Sir Damask had just started with Colonel Buskin and
Sir Alfonso Blackbird. And when Sir Damask declared that he
drove the coach up and down twice a week himself, Mr Wharton at
any rate affected to believe that such a thing was impossible.
Then when Sir Damask gave him the opinion as to the cause of the
failure of a certain horse at Northampton, Mr Wharton gave him no
encouragement whatever. 'I never was at a race-course in my
life,' said the barrister. After that Sir Damask drank his wine
in silence.
'You remember that claret, my lord?' said Dick, thinking that
some little compensation was due to him for what had been said
about the champagne.
But Lord Mongrober's dinner had not yet had the effect of
mollifying the man sufficiently for Dick's purposes. 'Oh, yes.
I remember the wine. You call it '57, don't you?'
'And it is '57;--'57, Leoville.'
'Very likely,--very likely. If it hadn't been heated before the
fire--'
'It hasn't been near the fire,' said Dick.
'Or put into a decanter--'
'Nothing of the kind.'
'Or treated after some other damnable fashion, it would be very
good wine, I dare say.'
'You are hard to please, my lord, to-day,' said Dick, who was put
beyond his bearing.
'What is a man to say? If you will talk about your wine, I can
only tell you what I think. Any man may get good wine,--that is
if he can afford to pay the price,--but one isn't out of ten who
knows how to put it on the table.' Dick felt this to be very
hard. When a man pays 100s a dozen for his champagne, and then
gives it to guests like Lord Mongrober, who are not even expected
to return the favour, then that man ought to be allowed to talk
about his wine without fear of rebuke. One doesn't have an
agreement to that effect written down in parchment and sealed;
but it is as well understood and ought to be as faithfully kept
as any legal contract. Dick, who could on occasions be awakened
to a touch of manliness, gave the bottle a shove and threw
himself back in his chair. 'If you ask me, I can only tell you,'
repeated Lord Mongrober.
'I don't believe you ever had a bottle of wine put before you in
better order in all your life,' said Dick. His lordship's face
became very square and very red as he looked round at his host.
'And as for talking about my wine, of course I talk to a man
about what he understands. I talk to Monogram about pigeons, to
Tom there about politics, to Apperton and Lopez about the price
of consols, and to you about wine. If I asked you what you
thought of the last new book, your lordship would be a little
surprised.' Lord Mongrober grunted and looked redder and squarer
that ever; but he made no attempt at reply, and the victory was
evidently left with Dick,--very much the general exaltation of
his character. And he was proud of himself. 'We had a little
tiff, me and Mongrober,' he said to his wife that night. 'He's a
very good fellow, and of course he's a lord and all that. But he
has to be put down occasionally, and by George, I did it tonight.
You ask Lopez.'
There were two drawing-rooms upstairs opening into each other,
but still distinct. Emily had escaped into the back room,
avoiding the gushing sentiments and equivocal morals of Lady
Eustace and Mrs Leslie,--and here she was followed by Ferdinand
Lopez. Mr Wharton was in the front room, and though on entering
it he did look furtively for his daughter, he was ashamed to
wander about in order that he might watch her. And there were
others in the back room,--Dick and Monogram standing on the rug,
and the elder Mrs Roby seated in a corner,--so that there was
nothing peculiar in the position of the two lovers.
'Must I understand,' said he, 'that I am banished from Manchester
Square?'
'Has papa banished you?'
'That's what I want you to tell me.'
'I know you had an interview with him, Mr Lopez.'
'Yes, I had.'
'And you must know best what he told you.'
'He would explain himself better to you than he did to me.'
'I doubt that very much. Papa, when he has anything to say
generally says it plainly. However, I do think that he did
intend to banish you. I do not know why I should not tell you
the truth.'
'I do not know either.'
'I think he did--intend to banish you.'
'And you?'
'I shall be guided by him in all things,--as far as I can.'
'Then I am banished by you also?'
'I did not say so. But if papa says that you are not to come
there, of course I cannot ask you to do so.'
'But I may see you here?'
'Mr Lopez, I will not be asked some questions. I will not
indeed.'
'You know why I ask them. You know that to me you are more than
all the world.' She stood still for a moment after hearing this,
and then without any reply walked away into the other room. She
felt half ashamed of herself in that she had not rebuked him for
speaking to her in that fashion after his interview with her
father, and yet his words had filled her heart with delight. He
had never before plainly declared his love to her,--though she
had been driven by her father's questions to declare her own love
to herself. She was quite sure of herself,--that the man was
and would always be to her the one being whom she would prefer to
all others. Her fate was in her father's hands. If he chose to
make her wretched he must do so. But on one point she had quite
made up her mind. She would make no concealment. To the world
at large she had nothing to say on the matter. But with her
father there should be no attempt on her part to keep back the
truth. Were he to question her on the subject she would tell
him, as far as her memory would serve her, the very words which
Lopez had spoken to her this evening. She would ask nothing from
him. He had already told her that the man was to be rejected,
and had refused to give any other reason than his dislike to the
absence of any English connection. She would not again ask even
for a reason. But she would make her father understand that
though she obeyed him she regarded the exercise of his authority
as tyrannical and irrational.
They left the house before any of the other guests and walked
round the corner together into the Square. 'What a very vulgar
set of people!' said Mr Wharton as soon as they were down the
steps.
'Some of them were,' said Emily, making a mental reservation of
her own.
'Upon my word I don't know where to make the exception. Why on
earth anyone should want to know such a person as Lord Mongrober
I can't understand. What does he bring into society?'
'A title.'
'But what does that do of itself? He is an insolent, bloated
brute.'
'Papa, you are using strong language to-night.'
'And that Lady Eustace! Heaven and earth! Am I to be told that
that creature is a lady?'
They had come to their own door, and while that was being opened,
and as they went up into their own drawing-room, nothing was
said, but then Emily began again. 'I wonder why you go to Aunt
Harriet's at all. You don't like the people?'
'I didn't like any of them today.'
'Why do you go there? You don't like Aunt Harriet herself. You
don't like Uncle Dick. You don't like Mr Lopez.'
'Certainly I do not.'
'I don't know who it is you do like.'
'I like Mr Fletcher.'
'It's no use saying that to me, papa.'
'You ask me a question, and I choose to answer it. I like Arthur
Fletcher, because he is a gentleman,--because he is a gentleman
of the class to which I belong myself; because he works, because
I know all about him, so that I can be sure of him, being quite
sure that he will say to me neither awkward things nor
impertinent things. He will not talk to me about driving a mail
coach like that foolish baronet, nor tell me the price of all the
wines like your uncle.' Nor would Ferdinand Lopez do so, thought
Emily to herself. 'But in all such matters, my dear, the great
thing is like to like. I have spoken of a young person, merely
because I wish you to understand that I can sympathize with
others besides those of my own age. But to-night there was no
one there at all like myself,--or, as I hope, like you. That
man Roby is a chattering ass. How such a man can be useful to
any government I can't conceive. Happerton was the best, but
what had he to say for himself? I've always thought that there
was very little wit wanted to make a fortune in the City.' In
this frame of mind, Mr Wharton went off to bed, but not a word
more was spoken about Ferdinand Lopez.
CHAPTER 11
CARLTON TERRACE.
Certainly the thing was done very well by Lady Glen,--as many in
the political world persisted in calling her even in these days.
She had not as yet quite carried out her plan,--the doing of
which would have required her to reconcile her husband to some
excessive abnormal expenditure, and to have obtained from him a
deliberate sanction for appropriation and probably sale of
property. She never could find the proper moment for doing this,
having with all her courage,--low down in some corner of her
heart,--a wholesome fear of a certain quiet power which her
husband possessed. She could not bring herself to make her
proposition;--but she almost acted as though it had been made
and approved. Her house was always gorgeous with flowers. Of
course there would be the bill;--and he, when he saw the
exotics, and the whole place turned into a bower of every fresh
blooming floral glories, must know that there would be the bill.
And when he found that there was an archducal dinner-party every
week and an almost imperial reception twice a week; that at these
receptions a banquet was always provided; when he was asked to
whether she might buy a magnificent pair of bay carriage-horses,
as to which she assured him that nothing so lovely had ever as
yet been seen stepping in the streets of London,--of course he
must know that the bill would come. It was better, perhaps, to
do it in this way, than to make any direct proposition. And
then, early in June, she spoke to him as the guests to be invited
to Gatherum Castle in August. 'Do you want to go to Gatherum in
August?' he asked in surprise. For she hated the place, and had
hardly been content to spend ten days there every year at
Christmas.
'I think it should be done,' she said solemnly. 'One cannot
quite consider just now what one likes oneself.'
'Why not?'
'You would hardly go to a small place like Matching in your
present position. There are so many people whom you should
entertain! You would probably have two or three of the foreign
ministers down for a time.'
'We always used to find plenty of room at Matching.'
'But you did not always use to be Prime Minister. It is only for
such a time as this that such a house as Gatherum is
serviceable.'
He was silent for a moment, thinking about it, and then gave way
without another word. She was probably right. There was the
huge pile of magnificent buildings; and somebody, at any rate,
had thought that it behoved a Duke of Omnium to live in such a
palace. It ought to be done at any time, it ought to be done
now. In that his wife had been right. 'Very well. Let us go
there.'
'I'll manage it all,' said the Duchess, 'I and Locock.' Locock was
the house-steward.
'I remember once,' said the Duke, and he smiled as he spoke with
a peculiarly sweet expression, which would at times come across
his generally inexpressive face,--'I remember once that some
First Minister of the Crown gave evidence as the amount of his
salary, saying that his place entailed upon him expenses higher
than his stipend would defray. I begin to think that my
experience will be the same.'
'Does that fret you?'
'No, Cora;--it certainly does not fret me, or I should not allow
it. But I think there should be a limit. No man is ever rich
enough to squander.'
Though they were to squander her fortune,--the money which she
had brought,--for the next ten years at a much greater rate than
she contemplated, they might do so without touching the Palliser
property. Of that she was quite sure. And the squandering was
to be all for his glory,--so that he might retain his position
as a popular Prime Minister. For an instant it occurred to her
that she would tell him all this. But she checked herself, and
the idea of what she had been about to say brought the blood into
her face. Never yet had she in talking to him alluded to her own
wealth.
'Of course we are spending money,' she said. 'If you give me a
hint to hold my hand, I will hold it.'
He had looked at her; and read it all in her face. 'God knows,'
he said, 'you've a right to do it if it pleases you.'
'For your sake!' Then he stooped down and kissed her twice, and
left her to arrange her parties as she pleased. After that she
congratulated herself that she had not made the direct
proposition, knowing that she might now do pretty much as she
pleased.
Then there were solemn cabinets held, at which she presided, and
Mrs Finn and Locock assisted. At other cabinets it is supposed
that, let a leader be ever so autocratic by disposition and
superior by intelligence, still he must not unfrequently yield to
the opinion of his colleagues. But in this cabinet the Duchess
always had her own way, though she was very persistent in asking
for counsel. Locock was frightened about the money. Hitherto
money had come without a word, out of the common, spoken to the
Duke. The Duke had always signed certain cheques, but they had
been normal cheques, and the money in its natural course had
flown in to meet them;--but now he must be asked to sign
abnormal cheques. That, indeed, had already been done; but still
the money had been there. A large balance, such as had always
stood to his credit, would stand a bigger racket than had yet
been made. But Locock was sure that the balance ought not to be
much further reduced,--and that steps must be taken. Something
must be sold! The idea of selling anything was dreadful to the
mind of Locock! Or else money must be borrowed! Now the
management of the Palliser property had always been conducted on
principles antagonistic to borrowing. 'But his Grace has never
spent his income,' said the Duchess. That was true. But the
money, as it showed a tendency to heap itself up, had been used
for the purchase of other bits of property, or for the
amelioration of the estates generally. 'You don't mean to say
that we can't get money if we want it!' Locock was profuse in
his assurance that any amount of money could be obtained,--only
that something had to be done. 'Then let something be done,'
said the Duchess, going on with her general plans. 'Many people
are rich,' said the Duchess afterwards to her friend, 'and some
people are very rich indeed; but nobody seems to be rich enough
to have ready money to do just what he wishes. It all goes into
a grand sum total, which is never to be touched without a feeling
of sacrifice. I suppose you have always enough for anything.'
It was well known that the present Mrs Finn, as Madame Goesler,
had been a wealthy woman.
'Indeed, no,--very far from that. I haven't a shilling.'
'What has happened?' asked the Duchess, pretending to be
frightened.
'You forget that I've got a husband of my own, and that he has to
be consulted.'
'That must be nonsense. But don't you think women are fools to
marry when they've got anything of their own, and could be their
own mistresses? I couldn't have been. I was made to marry
before I was old enough to assert myself.'
'And how well they did for you!'
'Pas si mal.--He's Prime Minister, which is a great thing, and I
begin to find myself filled to the full with political ambition.
I feel myself to be a Lady Macbeth, prepared for the murder of
any Duncan or any Daubney who may stand in my lord's way. In the
mean time, like Lady Macbeth herself, we must attend to the
banquetings. Her lord appeared and misbehaved himself; my lord
won't show himself at all,--which I think is worse.'
Our old friend Phineas Finn, who had now reached a higher place
in politics than even his political dreams had assigned to him,
though he was a Member of Parliament, was much away from London
in these days. New brooms sweep clean; and official new brooms,
I think, sweep cleaner than any other. Who has not watched at
the commencement of a Ministry some Secretary, some Lord, or some
Commissioner, who intends by fresh Herculean labours to cleanse
the Augean stables just committed to his care? Who does not know
the gentleman at the Home Office, who means to reform the police
and put an end to malefactors; or the new Minister at the Board
of Works, who is to make London beautiful as by a magician's
stroke,--or, above all, the new First Lord, who is resolved that
he will really build a fleet, purge the dockyards, and save us
half a million a year at the same time? Phineas Finn was bent on
unriddling the Irish sphinx. Surely something might be done to
prove to his susceptible countrymen that at the present moment no
curse could be laid upon them so heavy as that of having to rule
themselves apart from England; and he thought that this might be
easier, as he became from day to day more thoroughly convinced
that those Home Rulers who were all around him in the House were
altogether of the same opinion. Had some inscrutable decree of
fate ordained and made it certain,--with a certainty not to be
disturbed,--that no candidate would be returned to Parliament
who would not assert the earth to be triangular, there would rise
immediately a clamorous assertion of triangularity among
political aspirants. The test would be innocent. Candidates
have swallowed, and daily do swallow, many a worse one. As might
be this doctrine of a great triangle, so is the doctrine of Home
Rule. Why is a gentleman of property to be kept out in the cold
by some O'Mullins because he will not mutter an unmeaning
shibboleth? 'Triangular? Yes,--or lozenge-shaped, if you
please; but, gentlemen, I am the man for Tipperary.' Phineas
Finn, having seen, or thought that he had seen, all this, began,
from the very first moment of his appointment, to consider
painfully within himself whether the genuine services of an
honest and patriotic man might compass some remedy for the
present ill-boding ferment of the country. What was in it that
the Irish really did want;--what that they wanted, and had not
got, and which might with propriety be conceded to them? What
was it that the English really would refuse to sanction, even
though it might not be wanted? He found himself beating about
among the rocks as to Catholic education and Papal interference,
the passage among which might be made clearer to him in Irish
atmosphere than in that of Westminster. There he was away a good
deal in these days, travelling backwards and forwards as he might
be wanted for any debate. But as his wife did not accompany him
on these fitful journeys, she was able to give her time very much
to the Duchess.
The Duchess was on the whole very successful with her parties.
There were people who complained that she had everybody; that
there was no selection whatever as to politics, principles, rank,
morals,--or even manners. But in such a work as the Duchess has
now taken in hand, it was impossible that she should escape
censure. They who really knew what was being done were aware
that nobody was asked to that house without an idea that his or
her presence might be desirable,--in however remote a degree.
Paragraphs in newspapers go for much, and therefore the writers
and editors of such paragraphs were there,--sometimes with their
wives. Mr Broune, of the "Breakfast Table", was to be seen there
constantly, with his wife Lady Carbury, and poor old Booker of
the "Literary Chronicle". City men can make a budget popular or
the reverse, and therefore the Mills Happertons of the day were
welcome. Rising barristers might be wanted to become Solicitors-
General. The pet Orpheus of the hour, the young tragic actor who
was thought to have a real Hamlet within him, the old painter who
was sill strong with hope, even the little trilling poet, though
he trilled never so faintly, and the somewhat wooden novelist,
all had tongues of their own, and certain modes of expression,
which might assist or injure the Palliser Coalition,--as the
Duke's Ministry was now called.
'Who is that man? I've seen him here before. The Duchess was
talking to him ever so long just now.' The question was asked by
Mr Rattler of Mr Roby. About half-an-hour before this time Mr
Rattler had essayed to get a few words with the Duchess,
beginning with the communication of some small political secret.
But the Duchess did not care much for the Rattlers attached to
her husband's Government. They were men whose services could be
had for a certain payment,--and when paid for were, the Duchess
thought, at the Premier's command without further trouble. Of
course they came to the receptions, and were entitled to a smile
apiece when they entered. But they were entitled to nothing
more, and on this occasion, Rattler had felt himself to be
snubbed. It did not occur to him to abuse the Duchess. The
Duchess was too necessary for abuse,--just at present. But any
friend of the Duchess,--and favourite for the moment,--was of
course open to remark.
'He is a man named Lopez,' said Roby, 'a friend of Happerton;--a
very clever fellow they say.'
'Did you ever see him anywhere else?'
'Well, yes,--I have met him at dinner.'
'He was never in the House. What does he do?' Rattler was
distressed to think that any drone should have made it way into
the hive of working bees.
'Oh;--money, I fancy.'
'He's not a partner at Hunky's, is he?'
'I fancy not. I think I should have known if he was.'
'She ought to remember that people make use of coming here,' said
Rattler. She was, of course, the Duchess. 'It's not like a
private house. And whatever influence outsiders get by coming,
so much she loses. Somebody ought to explain that to her.'
'I don't think you or I could do that,' replied Mr Roby.
'I'll tell the Duke in a minute,' said Rattler. Perhaps he
thought he could tell the Duke, but we may be allowed to doubt
whether his prowess would not have fallen below the necessary
pitch when he met the Duke's eye.
Lopez was there for the third time, about the middle of June, and
had certainly contrived to make himself personally known to the
Duchess. There had been a deputation from the City to the Prime
Minister asking for a subsidized mail, via San Francisco, to
Japan. And Lopez, though he had no interest in Japan, had
contrived to be one of the number. He had contrived also, as the
deputation was departing, to say a word on his own account to the
Minister, and had ingratiated himself. The Duke had remembered
him, and had suggested that he should have a card. And now he
was among the flowers and the greatness, the beauty, the
politics, and the fashion of the Duchess's gatherings for the
third time. 'It is very well done,--very well, indeed,' said Mr
Boffin to him. Lopez had been dining with Mr and Mrs Boffin, and
had now again encountered his late host and hostess. Mr Boffin
was a gentleman who had belonged to the late Ministry, but had
somewhat out-Heroded Herod in his Conservatism, so as to have
been considered to be unfit for the Coalition. Of course, he was
proud of his own staunchness, and a little inclined to criticize
the lax principles of men who, for the sake of carrying on her
Majesty's Government, could be Conservatives one day and Liberals
the next. He was a labourious, honest man,--but hardly of
calibre sufficient not to regret his own honesty in such an
emergency as the present. It is easy for most of us to keep our
hands from picking and stealing when picking and stealing plainly
lead to prison diet and prison garments. But when silks and
satins come of it, and with the silks and satins general respect,
the net result of honesty does not seem to be so secure. Whence
will come the reward, and when? On whom the punishment, and
where? A man will not, surely, be damned for belonging to a
Coalition Ministry? Boffin was a little puzzled as he thought on
all this, but in the meantime was very proud of his own
constancy.
'I think it so lovely,' said Mrs Boffin. 'You look down through
an Elysium of rhododendrons into a Paradise of mirrors. I don't
think there was anything like it in London before.'
'I don't know that we ever had anybody at the same time, rich
enough to do this kind of thing as it is done now,' said Boffin,
'and powerful enough to get such people together. If the country
can be ruled by flowers and looking-glasses, of course it is very
well.'
'Flowers and looking-glasses won't prevent the country being
ruled well,' said Lopez.
'I'm not so sure of that,' continued Boffin. 'We all know what
the bread and games came to in Rome.'
'What did they come to?' asked Mrs Boffin.
'To a man burning in Rome, my dear, for his amusement, dressed in a
satin petticoat and a wreath of roses.'
'I don't think the Duke will dress himself like that,' said Mrs
Boffin.
'And I don't think,' said Lopez, 'that the graceful expenditure
of wealth in a rich man's house has any tendency to demoralize
the people.'
'The attempt here,' said Boffin severely, 'is to demoralize the
rulers of the people. I am glad to have come once to see how the
thing is done; but as an independent member of the House of
Commons I should not wish to be known to frequent the saloon of
the Duchess.' Then Mr Boffin took away Mrs Boffin, much to that
lady's regret.
'This is fairy land,' said Lopez to the Duchess, as he left the
room.
'Come and be a fairy then,' she answered, very graciously. 'We
are always on the wing about this hour on Wednesday night.' The
words contained a general invitation for the season, and were
esteemed by Lopez as an indication of great favour. It must be
acknowledged of the Duchess that she was prone to make
favourites, perhaps without adequate cause; though it must be
conceded to her that she rarely altogether threw off from her
anyone whom she had once taken to her good graces. It must also
be confessed that when she had allowed herself to hate either a
man or a woman, she generally hated on to the end. No Paradise
could be too charming for her friends; no Pandemonium too
frightful for her enemies. In reference to Mr Lopez she would
have said, if interrogated, that she had taken the man up in
obedience to her husband. But in truth she had liked the look
and the voice of the man. Her husband before now had recommended
men to her notice and kindness, whom at the first trial she had
rejected from her good-will, and whom she had continued to reject
ever afterwards, let her husband's urgency be what it might.
Another old friend, of whom former chronicles were not silent,
was at the Duchess's that night, and there came across Mrs Finn.
This was Barrington Erle, a politician of long standing, who was
still looked upon by many as a young man, because he had always
been known as a young man, and because he had never done anything
to compromise his position in that respect. He had not married,
or settled himself down in a house of his own, or become subject
to gout, or given up being careful about the fitting of his
clothes. No doubt the grey hairs were getting the better of the
black hairs, both on his head and face, and marks of coming
crows' feet were to be seen if you looked close at him, and he
had become careful about his great-coat and umbrella. He was in
truth much nearer fifty than forty;--nevertheless he was felt in
the House and among Cabinet Ministers and among the wives of
members and Cabinet Ministers, to be a young man still. And when
he was invited to become Secretary for Ireland it was generally
felt that he was too young for the place. He declined it,
however, and when he went to the Post-office, the gentlemen there
all felt that they had had a boy put over them. Phineas Finn,
who had become Secretary for Ireland, was in truth ten years the
junior. But Phineas Finn had been twice married, and had gone
through other phases of life, such as make a man old. 'How does
Phineas like it?' Erle asked. Phineas Finn and Barrington Erle
had gone through some political struggles together, and had been
very intimate.
'I hope not very much,' said the lady.
'Why so? Because he's away so much?'
No;--not that. I should not grudge his absence if the work
satisfied him. But I know him so well. The more he takes to it
now,--the more sanguine he is as to some special thing to be
done,--the more bitter will be the disappointment when he is
disappointed. For there never really is anything special to be
done;--is there, Mr Erle?'
'I thing there is always a little too much zeal about Finn.'
'Of course there is. And then with zeal there always goes a thin
skin,--and unjustifiable expectations, and biting despair, and
contempt of others, and all the elements of unhappiness.'
'That is a sad programme for your husband.'
'He has recuperative faculties which bring him round at last:--
but I really doubt whether he was made for a politician in this
country. You remember Lord Brock?'
'Dear old Brock;--of course I do. How should I not, if you
remember him?'
'Young men are boys at college, rowing in boats, when women have
been ever so long out in the world. He was the very model of an
English statesman. He loved his country dearly, and wished her
to be, as he believed her to be, first among nations. But he had
no belief in perpetuating her greatness by any grand
improvements. Let things take their way naturally--with a
slight direction hither or thither as thing might required. That
was his method of ruling. He believed in men rather than
measures. As long as he had the loyalty around him, he could be
personally happy, and quite confident as to the country. He
never broke his heart because he could not carry this or that
reform. What would have hurt him would have been to be worsted
in personal conflict. But he could always hold his own, and he
was always happy. Your man with a thin skin, a vehement
ambition, a scrupulous conscience, and a sanguine desire for
rapid improvement, is never happy, and seldom a fortunate
politician.'
'Mrs Finn, you understand it all better than anyone else that I
ever knew.'
'I have been watching it a long time, and of course very closely
since I have been married.'
'But you have an eye trained to see it all. What a useful member
you would have made in government!'
'But I should never have had the patience to sit all night upon
that bench in the House of Commons. How men can do it! They
mustn't read. They can't think because of the speaking. It
doesn't do for them to talk. I don't believe they ever listen.
It isn't in human nature to listen hour after hour to such
platitudes. I believe they fall into habit of half-wakeful
sleeping, which carries them through the hours; but even that
can't be pleasant. I look upon the Treasury Bench in July as a
sort of casual-ward, which we know to be necessary, but is almost
too horrid to be contemplated.'
'Men do get bread and skilly there certainly; but, Mrs Finn, we
can go into the library and smoking-room.'
'Oh, yes;--and a clerk in an office can read the newspapers
instead of doing his duty. But there is a certain surveillance
exercised, and a certain quantity of work exacted. I have met
Lords of the Treasury out at dinner on Mondays and Thursdays, but
we all regard them as boys who have shirked out of school. I
think upon the whole, Mr Erle, we women have the best of it.'
'I don't suppose you will go in for your "rights".'
'Not by Act of Parliament, or by platform meeting. I have a
great idea of a woman's rights; but that is the way, I think, to
throw them away. What do you think of the Duchess's evenings?'
'Lady Glen is in her way as great a woman as you are,--perhaps
greater, because nothing ever stops her.'
'Whereas I have scruples.'
'Her Grace has none. She has feelings and convictions which keep
her straight, but no scruples. Look at her now talking to Sir
Orlando Drought, a man she both hates and despises. I am sure
she is looking forward to some happy time in which the Duke may
pitch Sir Orlando overboard, and rule supreme, with me or some
other subordinate leading the House of Commons simply as
lieutenant. Such a time will never come, but that is her idea.
But she is talking to Sir Orlando now as if she were pouring her
full confidence into his ear; and Sir Orlando is believing her.
Sir Orlando is in a seventh heaven, and she is measuring his
credulity inch by inch.'
'She makes the place very bright.'
'And is spending an enormous deal of money,' said Barrington
Erle.
'What does it matter?'
'Well, no;--if the Duke likes it. I had an idea that the Duke
would not like the display of the thing. There he is. Do you
see him in the corner with his brother duke. He doesn't look as
if he were happy; does he? No one would think he was the master
of everything here. He has got himself hidden almost behind the
screen. I'm sure he doesn't like it.'
'He tries to like whatever she likes,' said Mrs Finn.
As her husband was away in Ireland, Mrs Finn was staying in the
house in Carlton Gardens. The Duchess at present required so
much of her time that this was found to be convenient. When,
therefore, the guests on the present occasion had all gone, the
Duchess and Mrs Finn were left together. 'Did you ever see
anything so hopeless as he is?' said the Duchess.
'Who is hopeless?'
'Heaven and earth! Plantagenet;--who else? Is there another
man in the world would come in his own house, among his own
guests, and speak only to one person? And, then, think of it!
Popularity is the staff on which alone Ministers can lean in this
country with security.'
'Political but not social security.'
'You know as well as I do that the two go together. We've seen
enough of that even in our day. What broke up Mr Gresham's
Ministry? If he had stayed away people might have thought that
he was reading blue-books, or calculating coinage, or preparing a
speech. That would have been much better. But he comes in and
sits for half an hour whispering to another duke! I hate dukes!'
'He talks to the Duke of St Bungay because there is no one he
trusts so much. A few years ago it would have been Mr Mildmay.'
'My dear,' said the Duchess angrily, 'you treat me as though I
were a child. Of course I know why he chooses that old man out
of all the crowd. I don't suppose he does from any stupid pride
of rank. I know very well what set of ideas govern him. But
that isn't the point. He has to reflect what others think of it,
and to endeavour to do what will please them. There was I
telling tarradiddles by the yard to that old oaf Sir Orlando
Drought, when a confidential word from Plantagenet would have had
ten times more effect. And why can't he speak a word to the
people's wives? They wouldn't bit him. He has got to say a few
words to you sometimes,--to whom it doesn't signify, my dear.'
'I don't know about that.'
'But he never speaks to another woman. He was here this evening
for exactly forty minutes, and he didn't open his lips to a
female creature. I watched him. How on earth am I to pull him
through if he goes on in that way? Yes, Locock, I'll go to bed,
and I don't think I'll get up for a week.'
CHAPTER 12
THE GATHERING OF CLOUDS.
Throughout June and the first week of July the affairs of the
Ministry went on successfully, in spite of the social sins of the
Duke and the occasional despair of the Duchess. There had been
many politicians who had thought, or had, at any rate, predicted
that the Coalition Ministry would not live a month. There had
been men, such as Lord Fawn on one side and Mr Boffin on the
other, who had found themselves stranded disagreeably,--with no
certain position,--unwilling to sit behind a Treasury bench from
which they were excluded, and too shy to place themselves
immediately opposite. Seats beneath the gangway were, of course,
open to such of them as were members of the Lower House and those
seats had to be used; but they were not accustomed to sit beneath
the gangway. These gentlemen had expected that the seeds of
weakness, of which they had perceived a scattering, would grow at
once into an enormous crop of blunders, difficulties, and
complications; but, for a while, the Ministry were saved from
these dangers either by the energy of the Prime Minister, or the
popularity of his wife, or perhaps by the sagacity of the elder
Duke;--so that there grew up an idea that the Coalition was
really the proper thing. In one respect it certainly was
successful. The Home Rulers, or Irish party generally, were left
without an inch of standing ground. Their support was not
needed, and therefore they were not courted. For the moment
there was not even a necessity to pretend that Home Rule was
anything but an absurdity from beginning to end;--so much so
that one or two leading Home Rulers, men who had taken up the
cause not only that they might become Members of Parliament, but
with some further idea of speech-making and popularity, declared
that the Coalition had been formed merely with a view of putting
down Ireland. This capability of dispensing with a generally
intractable element of support was felt to be a great comfort.
Then, too, there was a set in the House,--at that moment not a
very numerous set,--who had been troublesome friends to the old
Liberal party, and which the Coalition was able, if not to
ignore, at any rate to disregard. These were the staunch
economists, and argumentative philosophical Radicals,--men of
standing and repute, who are always in doubtful times
individually flattered by Ministers, who have great privileges
accorded to them of speaking and dividing, and who are not
unfrequently even thanked for their rods by the very owners of
the backs which bear the scourges. These men could not be quite
set aside by the Coalition as were the Home Rules. It was not
even yet, perhaps, wise to count them out, or to leave them to
talk to the benches absolutely empty;--but the tone of flattery
with which they had been addressed became gradually less warm;
and when the scourges were wielded, ministerial backs took
themselves out of the way. There grew up unconsciously a feeling
of security against attack which was distasteful to these
gentlemen, and was in itself perhaps a little dangerous.
Gentlemen bound to support the Government, when they perceived
that there was comparatively but little to do, and that little
might easily be done, became careless, and, perhaps a little
contemptuous. So that the great popular orator, Mr Turnbull,
found himself compelled to rise in his seat, and ask whether the
noble Duke at the head of the Government thought himself strong
enough to rule without attention to parliamentary details. The
question was asked with an air of inexorable severity, and was
intended to have deep signification. Mr Turnbull had disliked
the Coalition from the beginning; but then Mr Turnbull always
disliked everything. He had so accustomed himself to wield the
constitutional cat-of-nine-tails, that heaven will hardly be
happy to him unless he be allowed to flog the cherubim. Though
the party with which he was presumed to act had generally been in
power since he had been in the House, he had never allowed
himself to agree with a Minister on any point. And as he had
never been satisfied with a Liberal Government, it was not
probable that he should endure a Coalition in silence. At the
end of a rather lengthy speech, he repeated his question, and
then sat down, taking his place with all that constitutional
indignation, which becomes the parliamentary flagellator of the
day. The little jokes with which Sir Orlando answered him were
very well in their way. Mr Turnbull did not care much whether he
were answered or not. Perhaps the jauntiness of Sir Orlando,
which implied that the Coalition was too strong to regard attack,
somewhat irritated outsiders. But there certainly grew up from
that moment a feeling among such men as Erle and Rattler that
care was necessary, that the House, taken as a whole, was not in
a condition to be manipulated with easy freedom, and that Sir
Orlando must be made to understand that he was not strong enough
to depend on such jauntiness. The jaunty statesman must be very
sure of his personal following. There was a general opinion that
Sir Orlando had not brought the Coalition well out of the first
real attack which had been made upon it.
'Well, Phineas; how do you like the Phoenix?' Phineas Finn had
flown back to London at the instigation of probably Mr Rattler,
and was now standing at the window of Brook's club with
Barrington Erle. It was near nine one Thursday evening, and they
were both about to return to the House.
'I don't like the Castle, if you mean that.'
'Tyrone isn't troublesome, surely.' The Marquis of Tyrone was
the Lord Lieutenant of the day, and had in his time been a very
strong Conservative.
'He finds me troublesome, I fear,'
'I don't wonder at that, Phineas.'
'How should it be otherwise? What can he and I have in sympathy
with one another? He has been brought up with all the
Orangeman's hatred for a Papist. Now that he is in high office,
he can abandon the display of the feeling,--perhaps the feeling
itself as regards the country at large. He knows that it doesn't
become a Lord Lieutenant to be Orange. But how can he put
himself into a boat with me?'
'All that kind of thing vanishes when a man is in high office.'
'Yes, as a rule; because men go together into office with the
same general predilections. Is it too hot to walk down?'
'I'll walk a little way,--till you make me hot by arguing.'
'I haven't an argument left in me,' said Phineas. 'Of course
everything over there seems easy enough now,--so easy that Lord
Tyrone evidently imagines that the good times are coming back in
which governors may govern and not be governed.'
'You are pretty quiet in Ireland now, I suppose;--no martial
law, suspension of the habeas corpus, or anything of that kind,
just at present?'
'No; thank goodness!' said Phineas.
'I'm not quite sure whether a general suspension of the habeas
corpus would not upon the whole be the most comfortable state of
things for Irishmen themselves. But whether good or bad, you've
nothing of that kind of thing now. You've no great measure that
you wish to pass?'
'But they've a great measure that they wish to pass.'
'They know better than that. They don't want to kill their
golden goose.'
'The people, who are infinitely ignorant of all political work,
do want it. There are counties which, if you were to poll the
people, Home Rule would carry nearly every voter,--except the
members themselves.'
'You wouldn't give it them?'
'Certainly not;--any more than I would allow a son to ruin
himself because he asked me. But I would endeavour to teach them
that they get nothing by Home Rule,--that their taxes would be
heavier, the property less secure, their lives less safe, their
general position more debased, and their chances of national
success more remote than ever.'
'You can never teach them, except by the slow lesson of habit.
The Heptarchy didn't mould itself into a nation in a day.'
'Men were governed then, and could be an were moulded. I feel
sure that even in Ireland there is a stratum of men, above the
working peasants, who would understand, and make those below them
understand, the position of the country, if they could only be
got to give up the feeling about religion. Even now Home Rule is
regarded by the multitude as a weapon to be used against
Protestantism in behalf of the Pope.'
'I suppose the Pope is the great sinner?'
'They got over the Pope in France,--even in early days, before
religion had become a farce in the country. They have done so in
Italy.'
'Yes;--they have got over the Pope in Italy, certainly.'
'And yet,' said Phineas, 'the bulk of the people are staunch
Catholics. Of course the same attempt to maintain a temporal
influence, with the hope of recovering temporal power, is made in
other countries. But while we see the attempt failing elsewhere,
--so that we know the power of the Church is going to the wall,
--yet in Ireland it is infinitely stronger now than it was fifty,
or even twenty years ago.'
'Because we have been removing restraints on Papal aggression,
while other nations have been imposing restraints. There are
those at Rome who believe all England to be Romish at heart,
because here in England a Roman Catholic can say what he will,
and print what he will.'
'And yet,' said Phineas, 'all England does not return one
Catholic to the House, while we have Jews in plenty. You have a
Jew among your English judges, but at present not a single Roman
Catholic. What do you suppose are the comparative numbers of the
population here in England?'
'And you are going to cure all this;--while Tyrone thinks it
ought to be left as it is? I rather agree with Tyrone.'
'No;' said Phineas, wearily; 'I doubt whether I shall ever cure
anything, or even make any real attempt. My patriotism just goes
far enough to make me unhappy, and Lord Tyrone thinks that while
Dublin ladies dance at the Castle, and the list of agrarian
murders is kept low, the country is admirably managed. I don't
quite agree with him,--that's all.'
Then there arose a legal difficulty, which caused much trouble to
the Coalition Ministry. There fell vacant a certain seat on the
bench of judges,--a seat of considerable dignity and importance,
but not quite of the highest rank. Sir Gregory Grogram, who was
a rich, energetic man, determined to have a peerage, and
convinced that, should the Coalition fall to pieces, the Liberal
element would be in the ascendant,--so that the woolsack would
then be opened to him,--declined to occupy the place. Sir
Timothy Beeswax, the Solicitor-General, saw that it was exactly
suited for him, and had no hesitation in expressing an opinion to
that effect. But the place was not given to Sir Timothy. It was
explained to Sir Timothy that the old rule,--or rather custom,
--of offering certain high positions to the law officers of the
Crown, had been abrogated. Some Prime Minister, or, more
probably, some collection of Cabinet Ministers, had asserted the
custom to be a bad one,--and as far as right went, Sir Timothy
was declared not have a leg to stand upon. He was informed that
his services in the House were too valuable to be lost. Some
people said that his temper was against him. Others were of the
opinion that he had risen from the ranks too quickly, and that
Lord Ramsden who had come from the same party, thought that Sir
Timothy had not yet won his spurs. The Solicitor-General
resigned in a huff, and then withdrew his resignation. Sir
Gregory thought the withdrawal should not be accepted, having
found Sir Timothy to be an unsympathetic colleague. Our Duke
consulted the old Duke, among whose theories of official life
forbearance to all colleagues and subordinates was conspicuous.
The withdrawal was therefore allowed,--but the Coalition could
not after that be said to be strong in regard to its Law
Officers.
But the first concerted attack against the Ministry was made in
reference to the budget. Mr Monk, who had consented to undertake
the duties of Chancellor of the Exchequer under the urgent
entreaties of the two dukes, was of course late with the budget.
It was April before the Coalition had been formed. The budget
when produced had been very popular. Budgets, like babies, are
always little loves when first born. But as their infancy passes
away, they also become subject to many stripes. The details are
less pleasing than was the whole in the hands of the nurse.
There was a certain 'interest', very influential both by general
wealth and by the presence of many members in the House, which
thought that Mr Monk had disregarded its just claims. Mr Monk
had refused to relieve the Brewers from their licences. Now the
Brewers had for some years been agitating about their licences,
--and it is acknowledged in politics that any measure is to be
carried out, or left out in the cold uncarried and neglected,
according to the number of deputations which may be got to press
a Minister on the subject. Now the Brewers had had deputation
after deputation to many Chancellors of the Exchequer; and these
deputations had been most respectable,--we may almost say
imperative. It was quite usual for a deputation to have four or
five County members among the body, all Brewers; and the average
wealth of a deputation of Brewers would buy up half London. All
the Brewers in the House had been among the supporters of the
Coalition, the number of Liberal and Conservative Brewers having
been about equal. But now there was a fear that the 'interest'
might put itself into opposition. Mr Monk had been firm. More
than one of the Ministry had wished to yield;--but he had
discussed the matter with the Chief; and they were both very
firm. The Duke had never doubted. Mr Monk had never doubted.
From day to day certain organs of the Press expressed an opinion,
gradually increasing in strength, that however strong might be
the Coalition as a body, it was weak as to finance. This was
hard because not very many years ago, the Duke himself had been
known as a particularly strong Minister of Finance. An amendment
was moved in Committee as to the Brewer's Licences, and there was
almost a general opinion that the Coalition would be broken up.
Mr Monk would certainly not remain in office if the Brewers were
to be relieved from their licences.
Then it was that Phineas Finn was recalled from Ireland in red
hot haste. The measure was debated for a couple of nights, and
Mr Monk carried his point. The Brewers' Licences were allowed to
remain, as one great gentleman from Burton declared, a 'disgrace
to the fiscal sagacity of the country.' The Coalition was so far
victorious,--but there was a general feeling that its strength
had been impaired.
CHAPTER 13
MR WHARTON COMPLAINS.
'I think you have betrayed me.' This accusation was brought by
Mr Wharton against Mrs Roby in that lady's drawing-room, and was
occasioned by a report that had been made to the old lawyer by
his daughter. He was very angry and almost violent;--so much so
that by his manner, he gave considerable advantage to the lady
whom he was accusing.
Mrs Roby undoubtedly had betrayed her brother-in-law. She had
been false to the trust reposed in her. He had explained his
wishes to her in regard to his daughter, to whom she had in some
sort assumed to stand in place of a mother, and she, while
pretending to act in accordance with his wishes, had directly
opposed them. But it was not likely that he would be able to
prove her treachery though he might be sure of it. He had
desired that the girl should see as little as possible of
Ferdinand Lopez, but had hesitated to give a positive order that
she should not meet him. He had indeed himself taken her to a
dinner party at which he knew that she would meet him. But Mrs
Roby had betrayed him. Since the dinner party she had arranged a
meeting at her own house in behalf of the lover,--as to which
arrangement Emily Wharton had herself been altogether innocent.
Emily had met the man in her aunt's house, not expecting to meet
him, and the lover had had an opportunity of speaking his mind
freely. She also had spoken hers freely. She would not engage
herself without her father's consent. With that consent she
would do so,--oh, so willingly! She did not coy her love. He
might be certain that she would give herself to no one else. Her
heart was entirely his. But she had pledged herself to her
father, and on no consideration would she break that pledge. She
went on to say that after what had passed she thought that they
had better not meet. In such meetings there could be no
satisfaction, and must be much pain. But he had her full
permission to use any arguments that he could use with her
father. On the evening of that day she told her father all that
had passed,--omitting no detail either of what she had said or
of what had been said to her--adding a positive assurance of
obedience, but doing so with a severe solemnity and apparent
consciousness of ill-usage which almost broke her father's heart.
'Your aunt must have laid him there on purpose,' Mr Wharton had
said. But Emily would neither accuse nor defend her aunt. 'I at
least knew nothing of it,' she said. 'I know that,' Mr Wharton
had ejaculated. 'I know that. I don't accuse you of anything,
my dear,--except of thinking that you understand the world
better than I do.' Then Emily had retired and Mr Wharton had
been left to pass half the night in perplexed reverie, feeling
that he would be forced ultimately to give way, and yet certain
that by doing so he would endanger his child's happiness.
He was so angry with his sister-in-law, and on the next day,
early in the morning, he attacked her. 'I think you have
betrayed me,' he said.
'What do you mean by that, Mr Wharton?'
'You have had this man here on purpose that he might make love to
Emily.'
'I have done no such thing. You told me yourself that they were
not to be kept apart. He comes here, and it would be very odd
indeed if I were to tell the servants that he is not to be
admitted. If you want to quarrel with me, of course you can. I
have always endeavoured to be a good friend to Emily.'
'It is not being a good friend to her, bringing her and this
adventurer together.'
'I don't know why you call him an adventurer. But you are so
very odd in your ideas! He is received everywhere, and is always
at the Duchess of Omnium's.'
'I don't care a fig about the Duchess.'
'I dare say not. Only the Duke happens to be Prime Minister, and
his house is considered to have the very best society in England,
or indeed, Europe, can give. And I think it is something in a
young man's favour when it is known that he associates with such
persons as the Duke of Omnium. I believe that most fathers would
have a regard to the company which a man keeps when they think of
their daughter's marrying.'
'I ain't thinking of her marrying. I don't want her to marry;--
not this man at least. And I fancy the Duchess of Omnium is just
as likely to have scamps in her drawing-room as any other lady in
London.'
'And do such men as Mr Happerton associate with scamps?'
'I don't know anything about Mr Happerton,--and I don't care
anything about him.'
'He has 20,000 pounds a year out of his business. And does
Everett associate with scamps.'
'Very likely.'
'I never knew anyone so much prejudiced as you are, Mr Wharton.
When you have a point to carry there's nothing you won't say. I
suppose it comes from being in the courts.'
'The long and short of it is this,' said the lawyer, 'if I find
that Emily is brought here to meet Mr Lopez, I must forbid her to
come at all.'
'You must do as you please about that. But to tell you the
truth, Mr Wharton, I think the mischief is done. Such a girl as
Emily, when she has taken it into her head to love a man, is not
likely to give him up.'
'She has promised to have nothing to say to him without my
sanction.'
'We all know what that means. You'll have to give way. You'll
find that it will be so. The stern parent who dooms his daughter
to perpetual seclusion because she won't marry the man he likes,
doesn't belong to this age.'
'Who talks about seclusion?'
'Do you suppose that she'll give up the man she loves because you
don't like him? Is that the way girls live nowadays? She won't
run away with him, because she's not one of that sort; but unless
you're harder-hearted than I take you to be, she'll make your
life a burden to you. And as for betraying you, that's nonsense.
You've no right to say it. I'm not going to quarrel with you
whatever you may say, but you've no right to say it.'
Mr Wharton as he went away to Lincoln's Inn, bewailed himself
because he knew he was not hard-hearted. What his sister-in-law
had said to him in that respect was true enough. If he could
only rid himself of a certain internal ague which made him feel
that his life was, indeed, a burden to him while his daughter was
unhappy, he need only remain passive and simply not give the
permission without which his daughter would not ever engage
herself to this man. But the ague troubled every hour of his
present life. That sister-in-law of his was a silly, vulgar,
worldly, and most untrustworthy woman;--but she had understood
what she was saying.
And there had been something in that argument about the Duchess
of Omnium's parties, and Mr Happerton, which had its effect. If
the man did live with the great and wealthy, it must be because
they thought well of him and his position. The fact of his being
"a nasty foreigner", and probably of Jewish descent, remained.
To him, Wharton, the man must always be distasteful. But he
could hardly maintain his opposition to one of whom the choice
spirits of the world thought well. And he tried to be fair on
the subject. It might be that it was a prejudice. Others
probably did not find a man to be odious because he was swarthy,
or even object to him if he were a Jew by descent. But it was
wonderful to him that his girl should like such a man,--should
like such a man well enough to choose him as the one companion of
her life. She had been brought up to prefer English men, and
English thinking, and English ways,--and English ways, too,
somewhat of a past time. He thought as did Brabantio, that it
could not be that without magic, his daughter had also shunned--
"The wealthy curled darlings of our nation,
Would ever have, to incur a general mock,
Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom
Of such a thing as--"
the distasteful Portuguese.
That evening he said nothing further to his daughter, but sat
with her, silent and disconsolate. Later in the evening, after
she had gone to her room, Everett came in while the old man was
still walking up and down the drawing-room. 'Where have you
been?' asked the father,--not caring a straw as to any reply
when he asked the question, but roused almost to anger by the
answer when it came.
'I have been dining with Lopez at the club.'
'I believe you live with that man.'
'Is there a reason, sir, why I should not?'
'You know there is a good reason why there should be no peculiar
intimacy. But I don't suppose that my wishes, or your sister's
welfare, will interest you.'
'That is severe, sir.'
'I am not such a fool as to suppose that you are to quarrel with
a man because I don't approve of his addressing your sister; but
I do think that while this is going on, and while he perseveres
in opposition to my distinct refusal, you need not associate with
him in any special manner.'
'I don't understand your objection to him, sir.'
'I dare say not. There are a great many things you don't
understand. But I do object.'
'He's a very rising man. Mr Roby was saying to me just now--'
'Who cares a straw what a fool like Roby says?'
'I don't mean Uncle Dick, but his brother,--who, I suppose, is
somebody in the world. He was saying to me just now that he
wondered why Lopez does not go into the House;--that he would be
sure to get a seat if he chose, and safe to make a mark when he
got there.'
'I dare say he would get into the House. I don't know any well-
to-do blackguard of whom you might not predict as much. A seat
in the House of Commons doesn't make a man a gentleman, as far as
I can see.'
'I think everyone allows that Ferdinand Lopez is a gentleman.'
'Who was his father?'
'I didn't happen to know him, sir.'
'And who was his mother? I don't suppose you will credit
anything because I say it, but as far as my experience goes, a
man doesn't often become a gentleman in the first generation. A
man may be very worthy, very clever, very rich,--very well worth
knowing, if you will;--but when one talks of admitting a man
into close family communion by marriage, one would, I fancy, wish
to know something of his father and mother.' Then Everett
escaped, and Mr Wharton was again left to his own meditations.
Oh, what a peril, what a trouble, what a labyrinth of
difficulties was a daughter! He must either be known as a stern,
hard-hearted parent, utterly indifferent to his child's feelings,
using with tyranny the power over her which came to him only from
a sense of filial duty,--or else he must give up his own
judgement, and yield to her in a matter as to which he believed
that such yielding would be most pernicious to her own interests.
Hitherto he really knew nothing of the man's means;--nor, if he
could have his own way, did he want to such information. But, as
things were going now, he began to feel that if he could hear
anything averse to the man, he might thus strengthen his hands
against him. On the following day he went into the city, and
called on an old friend, a banker,--one whom he had known for
nearly half a century, and of whom, therefore, he was not afraid
to ask a question. For Mr Wharton was a man not prone, in the
ordinary intercourse of life, either to ask or to answer
questions. 'You don't know anything, do you, of a man named
Ferdinand Lopez?'
'I have heard of him. But why do you ask?'
'Well; I have reason for asking. I don't know that I quite wish
to say what my reason is.'
'I have heard of him as connected with Hunky's house,' said the
banker,--'or rather with one of the partners in the house.'
'Is he a man of means?'
'I imagine him to be so;--but I know nothing. He has rather
large dealings, I take it, in foreign stocks. Is he after my old
friend, Miss Wharton?'
'Well;--yes.'
'You had better get more information than I can give you. But,
of course, before anything of that kind was done, you would see
that money was settled.' This was all he heard in the city, and
this was not satisfactory. He had not liked to tell his friend
that he wished to hear that the foreigner was a needy adventurer,
--altogether untrustworthy; but that had really been his desire.
Then he thought of the 60,000 pounds which he himself destined
for his girl. If the man were to his liking there would be money
enough. Though he had been careful to save money, he was not a
greedy man, even for his children. Should his daughter insist on
marrying this man, he could take care that she should never want
a sufficient income.
As a first step,--a thing to be done almost at once,--he must
take her away from London. It was now July, and the custom of
the family was that the house in Manchester Square should be left
for two months, and that the flitting should take place in about
the middle of August. Mr Wharton usually liked to postpone the
flitting, as he also liked to hasten the return. But now it was
a question whether he had not better start at once,--start
somewhither, and probably for a much longer period than the usual
vacation. Should he take the bull by the horns and declare his
purpose of living for the next twelvemonth at--; well, it did
not much matter where. Dresden, he thought, was a long way off,
and would do as well as any place. Then it occurred to him that
his cousin, Sir Alured was in town, and that he had better see
his cousin before he came to any decision. They were, as usual,
expected at Wharton Hall this autumn, and that arrangement could
not be abandoned without explanation.
Sir Alured Wharton was a baronet, with a handsome old family
place on the Wye, in Hertfordshire, whose forefathers had been
baronets since baronets were first created, and whose earlier
forefathers had lived at Wharton Hall much before that time. It
may be imagined, therefore, that Sir Alured was proud of his
name, of his estate, and of his rank. But there were drawbacks
to his happiness. As regarded his name, it was to descend to a
nephew whom he specially disliked,--and with good cause. As to
his estate, delightful as it was in many respects, it was hardly
sufficient to maintain his position with that plentiful
hospitality which he would have loved;--and other property he
had none. And as to his rank, he had almost become ashamed of
it, since,--as he was wont to declare was now the case,--every
prosperous tallow-maker throughout the country was made a baronet
as a matter of course. So he lived at home through the year with
his wife and daughters, not pretending to the luxury of the
season for which his modest three or four thousand a year did not
suffice;--and so living, apart from all the friction of clubs,
parliaments, and mixed society, he did veritably believe that his
dear country was going utterly to the dogs. He was so staunch in
politics, that during the doings of the last quarter of a
century,--from the repeal of the Corn Laws down to the Ballot,--
he had honestly declared one side to be as bad as the other.
Thus he felt that all his happiness was to be drawn from the
past. There was nothing of joy or glory to which he could look
forward either on behalf of his country or his family. His
nephew,--and alas, his heir,--was a needy spendthrift, with
whom he would hold no communication. The family settlement for
his wife and daughters would leave them but poorly off; and
though he did struggle to save something, the duty of living as
Sir Alured Wharton of Wharton Hall should live made those
struggles very ineffective. He was a melancholy, proud, ignorant
man, who could not endure a personal liberty, and who thought the
assertion of social equality on the part of men of lower rank to
amount to the taking of a personal liberty;--who read little or
nothing, and thought that he knew the history of his country
because he was aware that Charles I had had his head cut off, and
that the Georges had come from Hanover. If Charles I had never
had had his head cut off, and if the Georges had never come from
Hanover, the Whartons would now probably be great people and
Britain a great nation. But the Evil One had been allowed to
prevail, and everything had gone astray, and Sir Alured now had
nothing of this world to console him but a hazy retrospect of
past glories, and a delight in the beauty of his own river, his
own park, and his own house. Sir Alured, with all his foibles,
and with all his faults, was a pure-minded, simple gentleman, who
could not tell a lie, who could not do a wrong, and who was
earnest in his desire to make those who were dependent on him
comfortable, and, if possible, happy. Once a year he came up to
London for a week, to see his lawyers, and get measured for a
coat, and go to the dentist. These were the excuses which he
gave, but it was fancied by some that his wig was the great
moving cause. Sir Alured and Mr Wharton were second cousins, and
close friends. Sir Alured trusted his cousin altogether in all
things, believing him to be the great legal luminary of Great
Britain, and Mr Wharton returned his cousin's affection,
entertaining something akin to reverence for the man who was the
head of his family. He dearly loved Sir Alured,--and loved Sir
Alured's wife and two daughters. Nevertheless, the second week
at Wharton Hall became very tedious to him, and the fourth, fifth
and sixth weeks frightful with ennui.
Perhaps it was with some unconscious dread of this tedium that he
made a sudden suggestion to Sir Alured in reference to Dresden.
Sir Alured had come to him at his chambers, and the two old men
were sitting together near the open window. Sir Alured delighted
in the privilege of sitting there, which seemed to confer upon
him something of an insight into the inner ways of London life
beyond what he could get at the hotel or his wigmaker's. 'Go to
Dresden;--for the winter!' he exclaimed.
'Not only for the winter. We should go at once.'
'Not before you come to Wharton!' said the amazed baronet.
Mr Wharton replied in a low, sad voice, 'in that case we should
not go down to Hertfordshire at all.' The baronet looked hurt as
well as unhappy. 'Yes, I know what you will say, and how kind
you are.'
'It isn't kindness at all. You always come. It would be
breaking up everything.'
'Everything has to be broken up sooner or later. One feels that
as one grows older.'
'You and I, Abel, are just of an age. Why should you talk to me
like this? You are strong enough, whatever I am. Why shouldn't
you come? Dresden! I never heard of such a thing. I suppose
it's some nonsense of Emily's.'
Then Mr Wharton told his whole story. 'Nonsense of Emily's!' he
began. 'Yes, it is nonsense, worse than you think. But she
doesn't want to go abroad.' The father's plaint needn't be
repeated to the reader as it was told to the baronet. Though it
was necessary that he should explain himself, yet he tried to be
reticent. Sir Alured listened in silence. He loved his cousin
Emily, and knowing that she would be rich, knowing her advantages
of birth, and recognizing her beauty, had expected that she would
make a match creditable to the Wharton family. But a Portuguese
Jew! A man who had never been even known to allude to his own
father! For by degrees Mr Wharton had been driven to confess all
the sins of the lover, though he had endeavoured to conceal the
extent of his daughter's love.
'Do you mean that Emily--favours him?'
'I am afraid so.'
'And would she,-would she--do anything without your sanctions?'
He was always thinking of the disgrace attaching to himself by
reason of his nephew's vileness, and now, if a daughter of the
family should also go astray, so as to be exiled from the bosom
of the Whartons, how manifest would it be that all the glory was
departing from their house!
'No! She will do nothing without my sanction. She has given her
word,--which is gospel.' As he spoke the old lawyer struck his
hand upon the table.
'Then why should you run to Dresden?'
'Because she is unhappy. She will not marry him,-or even see him
if I forbid it. But she is near him.'
'Hertfordshire is a long way off,' said the baronet pleading.
'Changes of scene are what she should have,' said the father.
'There can't be more of a change than she would get at Wharton.
She always did like Wharton. It was there that she met Arthur
Fletcher.' The father only shook his head as Arthur Fletcher's
name was mentioned. 'Well,--that is sad. I always thoughts
she'd give way about Arthur at last.'
'It is impossible to understand a young woman,' said the lawyer.
With such an English gentleman as Arthur Fletcher on one side,
and with his Portuguese Jew on the other, it was to him Hyperion
to a Satyr. A darkness had fallen over the girl's eyes, and for
a time her power of judgment had left her.
'But I don't see why Wharton should not do just as well as
Dresden,' continued the baronet.
Mr Wharton found himself quite unable to make his cousin
understand the greater disruption caused by a residence abroad,
the feeling that a new kind of life had been considered necessary
for her, and that she must submit to the new kind of life, might
be gradually effective, while the journeyings and scenes which
had been common to her year after year would have no effect.
Nevertheless he gave way. They could hardly start to Germany at
once, but the visit to Wharton might be accelerated; and the
details of the residence abroad might there be arranged. It was
fixed, therefore, that Mr Wharton and Emily should go down to
Wharton Hall at any rate before the end of July.
'Why do you go earlier than usual, papa?' Emily asked him
afterwards.
'Because I think it's best,' he replied angrily. She ought at
any rate to understand the reason.
'Of course I shall be ready, papa. You know that I always like
Wharton. There is no place on earth I like so much, and this
year it will be especially pleasant to me to go out of town.
But--'
'But what?'
'I can't bear to think that I shall be taking you away.'
'I've got to bear worse things than that, my dear.'
'Oh, papa, do not speak to me like that! Of course I know what
you mean. There is no real reason for your going. If you wish
it I will promise you I will never see him.' He only shook his
head,--meaning to imply that a promise could go no farther than
that would not make him happy. 'It will be just the same, papa,
-either here, or at Wharton, or elsewhere. You need not be
afraid of me.'
'I am not afraid of you;--but I am afraid for you. I fear for
your happiness,--and for my own.'
'So do I, papa. But what can be done? I suppose sometimes
people must be unhappy. I can't change myself and I can't change
you. I find myself as much bound to Mr Lopez as though I were
his wife.'
'No, no! You shouldn't say so. You've no right to say so.'
'But I have given you a promise, and I certainly will keep it.
If we must be unhappy, still we need not,--need not quarrel;
need we, papa?' Then she came up to him and kissed him,--
whereupon he went out of the room wiping his eyes.
That evening he again spoke to her, saying merely a word. 'I
think, my dear, we'll have it fixed that we go on the 30th. Sir
Alured seemed to wish it.'
'Very well, papa;--I shall be quite ready.'
CHAPTER 14
A LOVER'S PERSEVERANCE.
Ferdinand Lopez learned immediately through Mrs Roby that the
early departure for Hertfordshire had been fixed. 'I should go
to him and speak to him very plainly,' said Mrs Roby. 'He can't
bite you.'
'I'm not in the least afraid of his biting me.'
'You can talk so well! I should tell him everything, especially
about money,--which I'm sure is all right.'
'Yes,--that is all right,' said Lopez, smiling.
'And about your people.'
'Which, I've no doubt you think is all wrong.'
'I don't know anything about it,' said Mrs Roby, 'and I don't
much care. He has old-world notions. At any rate you should say
something, so that he should not be able to complain to her that
you had kept him in the dark. If there is anything to be known,
it's much better to have it known.'
'But there is nothing to be known.'
'Then tell him nothing;--but still tell it to him. After that
you must trust to her. I don't suppose she'd go off with you.'
'I'm sure she wouldn't.'
'But she's as obstinate as a mule. She'll get the better of him
if you really mean it.' He assured her that he really did mean
it, and determined that he would take her advice as to seeing, or
endeavouring to see, Mr Wharton once again. But before doing so
he thought it to be expedient to put his house in order, so that
he might be able to make a statement of his affairs if asked to
do so. Whether they were flourishing or the reverse, it might be
necessary that he should have to speak of them,--with, at any
rate, apparent candour.
The reader may, perhaps, remember that in the month of April
Ferdinand Lopez had managed to extract a certain signature from
his unfortunate city friend, Sexty Parker, which made that
gentleman responsible for the payment of a considerable sum of
money before the end of July. The transaction had been one of
unmixed painful nature to Mr Parker. As soon as he came to think
of it, after Lopez had left him, he could not prevail upon
himself to forgive himself for his folly. That he,--he, Sextus
Parker,--should have been induced by a few empty words to give
his name for seven hundred and fifty pounds without any
consideration or possibility of benefit! And the more he thought
of it the more sure he was that the money was lost. The next day
he confirmed his own fears, and before a week was gone he had
written down the sum as gone. He told nobody. He did not like
to confess his folly. But he made some inquiry about his friend,
--which was absolutely futile. No one that he knew seemed to
know anything of the man's affairs. But he saw his friend from
time to time in the city, shining as only successful men do
shine, and he heard of him as one whose name was becoming known
in the city. Still he suffered grievously. His money was surely
gone. A man does not fly a kite in that fashion till things with
him have reached a bad pass.
So it was with Mr Parker all through May and to the end of June,
the load ever growing heavier and heavier as the time became
nearer. Then, while he was still afflicted with a heaviness of
spirits which had never left him since that fatal day, who but
Ferdinand Lopez should walk into his office, wearing the gayest
smile and with a hat splendid as hats are splendid only in the
city. And nothing could be more 'jolly' than his friend's
manner,--so much so that Sexty was almost lifted up into
temporary jollity himself. Lopez, seating himself almost at once
began to describe a certain speculation into which he was going
rather deeply, and as to which he invited his friend Parker's co-
operation. He was intending, evidently, not to ask, but to
confer a favour.
'I rather think that steady business is best,' said Parker. 'I
hope it's all right about the 750 pounds.'
'Ah; yes,--I meant to have told you. I didn't want the money,
as it turned out, for much above a fortnight, and as there was no
use in letting the bill run out, I settled it.' So saying he
took out a pocket-book, extracted the bill, and showed it to
Sexty. Sexty's heart fluttered in his bosom. There was his name
still on the bit of paper, and it might still be used. Having it
shown him after this fashion in its mid career, of course he had
strong ground for hope. But he could not bring himself to put
out his hand for it. 'As to what you say about steady business,
of course that's very well,' said Lopez. 'It depends on whether
a man wants to make a small income or a large fortune.' He still
held the bill as though he were going to fold it up again, and
the importance of it was so present to Sexty's mind that he could
hardly digest the argument about the steady business. 'I own
that I an not satisfied with the former,' continued Lopez, 'and
that I go in for the fortune.' As he spoke he tore the bill into
three or four bits, apparently without thinking of it, and let
the fragments fall upon the floor. It was as though a mountain
had been taken off Sexty's bosom. He felt almost inclined to
send out for a bottle of champagne on the moment, and the
arguments of his friend rang in his ears with quite a different
sound. The allurements of a steady income paled before his eyes,
and he too began to tell himself as he had often told himself
before, that if he would only keep his eyes open and his heart
high, there was no reason why he too should not become a city
millionaire. But on that occasion Lopez left him soon, without
saying very much about his favourite speculation. In a few days,
however, the same matter was brought before Sexty's eyes from
another direction. He learned from a side wind that the house of
Hunky and Sons was concerned largely in this business,--or at
any rate he thought that he had so learned. The ease with which
Lopez had destroyed that bill six weeks before it was due had had
great effect upon him. Those arguments about a large fortune or
a small income still clung to him. Lopez had come to him about
the business in the first instance, but it was now necessary that
he should go to Lopez. He was, however, very cautious. He
managed to happen to meet Lopez in the street, and introduced the
subject in his own slap-dash, aery manner,--the result of which
was, that he had gone rather deep into two or three American
mines before the end of July. But he had already made some money
out of them, and, though he would find himself sometimes
trembling before he had taken his daily allowance of port wine
and brandy and water, still he was buoyant, and hopeful of living
in a park, with a palace at the West End, and a seat in
Parliament. Knowing also as he did, that his friend Lopez was
intimate with the Duchess of Omnium, he had much immediate
satisfaction in the intimacy which these relations created. He
was getting in the thin edge of the wedge, and would calculate as
he went home to Ponder's End how long it must be before he could
ask his friend to propose him at some West End club. On one
halcyon summer evening Lopez had dined with him at Ponder's End,
had smiled on Mrs Parker and played with the hopeful little
Parkers. On that occasion Sexty had assured his wife that he
regarded his friendship with Ferdinand Lopez as the most
fortunate circumstance of his life. 'Do be careful, Sexty,' the
poor woman had said. But Parker had simply told her that she
understood nothing about business. On that evening Lopez had
thoroughly imbued him with the conviction that if you will only
set your mind that way, it is quite as easy to amass a large
fortune as to earn a small income.
About a week before the departure of the Whartons to
Hertfordshire, Lopez in compliance with Mrs Roby's counsels,
called at the chambers in Stone Buildings. It is difficult to
say that you will not see a man, when the man is standing just on
the other side of an open door,--nor, in this case, was Mr
Wharton quite clear that he had better decline to see the man.
But while he was doubting,--at any rate before he had resolved
upon denying his presence,--the man was there, inside his room.
Mr Wharton got up from his chair, hesitated a moment, and then
gave his hand to the intruder in that half-unwilling,
unsatisfactory manner which most of us have experienced when
shaking hands with some cold-blooded, ungenial acquaintance.
'Well, Mr Lopez,--what can I do for you?' he said, as he re-
seated himself. He looked as though he were at his ease and
master of the situation. He had control over himself sufficient
for assuming such a manner. But his heart was not high within
his bosom. The more he looked at the man the less he liked him.
'There is one thing, and one thing only, you can do for me,' said
Lopez. His voice was peculiarly sweet, and when he spoke his
words seemed to mean more than when they came from other mouths.
But Mr Wharton did not like sweet voices and mellow, soft words,
--at least not from men's mouths.
'I do not think I can do anything for you, Mr Lopez,' he said.
There was slight pause, during which the visitor put down his hat
and seemed to hesitate. 'I think your coming here can be of no
avail. Did I not explain myself when I saw you before?'
'But, I fear, I did not explain myself. I hardly told my story.'
'You can tell it, of course,--if you think the telling will do
you any good.'
'I was not able to say than, as I can say now, that your daughter
had accepted my love.'
'You ought not to have spoken to my daughter on the subject after
what passed between us. I told you my mind frankly.'
'Ah, Mr Wharton, how was obedience in such a matter possible?
What would you yourself think of a man who in such a position
would be obedient? I did not seek her secretly. I did nothing
underhand. Before I had once directly asked her for her love, I
came to you.'
'What's the use of that, if you go to her immediately afterwards
in manifest opposition to my wishes? You found yourself bound,
as would any gentleman, to ask a father's leave, and when it was
refused, you went on just though it had been granted! Don't you
call that a mockery?'
'I can say now, sir, what I could not say then. We love each
other. And I am sure of her as I am of myself when I assert that
we shall be true to each other. You must know her well enough to
be sure of that also.'
'I am sure of nothing but of this;--that I will not give her my
consent to become your wife.'
'What is your objection, Mr Wharton?'
'I explained it before as far as I found myself called upon to
explain it.'
'Are we both to be sacrificed for some reason that we neither of us
understand?'
'How dare you take upon yourself to say that she doesn't
understand! Because I refuse to be more explicit to you a
stranger, do you suppose that I am equally silent to my own
child?'
'In regard to money and social rank, I am able to place your
daughter as my wife in a position as good as she now holds as
Miss Wharton.'
'I care nothing about money. Mr Lopez, and our ideas of social
rank are perhaps different. I have nothing further to say to
you, and I do not think that you can have anything further to say
to me that can be of any avail.' Then, having finished his
speech, he got up from his chair and stood upright, thereby
demanding of his visitor that he should depart.
'I think it no more than honest, Mr Wharton, to declare this one
thing. I regard myself as irrevocably engaged to your daughter,
and she, although she has refused to bind herself to me by that
special word, is, I am certain, as firmly fixed in her choice as
I am in mine. My happiness, as a matter of course, can be
nothing to you.'
'Not much,' said the lawyer, with angry impatience.
Lopez smiled, but he put down the word in his memory and
determined he would treasure it there. 'Not much, at any rate as
yet,' he said. 'But her happiness must be much to you.'
'It is everything. But in thinking of her happiness I must look
beyond what might be the satisfaction of the present day. You
must excuse me, Mr Lopez, if I say that I would rather not
discuss the matter with you any further.' Then he rang the bell
and passed quickly into an inner room. When the clerk came Lopez
of course marched out of the chamber and went his way.
Mr Wharton had been very firm, and yet he was shaken. It was by
degrees becoming a fixed idea in his mind that the man's material
prosperity was assured. He was afraid even to allude to that
subject when talking to the man himself, lest he should be
overwhelmed by evidence on that subject. Then the man's manner,
though it was distasteful to Wharton himself, would, he well
knew, recommend him to others. He was good-looking, he lived
with people who were highly regarded, he could speak up for
himself, and he was a favoured guest at Carlton House Terrace.
So great had been the fame of the Duchess and her hospitality
during the last two months, that the fact of the man's success in
this respect had come home even to Mr Wharton. He feared that
the world would be against him, and he already began to dread the
joint opposition of the world and his own child. The world of
this day did not, he thought, care whether its daughter's
husbands had or had not any fathers or mothers. The world as it
was now didn't care whether its sons-in-law were Christian or
Jewish;--whether they had the fair skin and bold eyes and
uncertain words of an English gentleman, or the swarthy colour
and false grimace and glib tongue of some inferior Latin race.
But he cared for those things;--and it was dreadful to him to
think that his daughter should not care for them. 'I suppose I
had better die and leave them to look after themselves,' he said,
as he returned to his arm-chair.
Lopez himself was not altogether ill-satisfied with the
interview, not having expected that Mr Wharton would have given
way at once and bestowed upon him then and there the kind father-
in-law's "bless you,--bless you!". Something had yet to be done
before the blessing would come, or the girl,--or the money. He
had to-day asserted his own material success, speaking of himself
as of a moneyed man,--and his statement had been received with
no contradiction,--even without the suggestion of a doubt. He
did not therefore suppose that the difficulty was over; but he
was clever enough to perceive that the aversion to him on another
score might help to tide him over that difficulty. And if once
he could call the girl his wife, he did not doubt but that he
could build himself up with the barrister's money. After leaving
Lincoln's Inn he went at once to Berkeley Street, and was soon
closeted with Mrs Roby. 'You can get her here before you go?' he
said.
'She wouldn't come;--and if we arranged it without letting her
know that you were to be here, she would tell her father. She
hasn't a particle of female intrigue in her.'
'So much the better,' said the lover.
'That's all very well for you to say, but when a man makes such a
tyrant of himself as Mr Wharton is doing, a girl is bound to look
after herself. If it was me I'd go off with my young man before
I'd stand such treatment.'
'You could give her a letter.'
'She'd only show it to her father. She is so perverse that I
sometimes feel inclined to say that I'll have nothing further to
do with her.'
'You'll give her a message at any rate?'
'Yes,--I can do that;--because I can do it in a way that won't seem
to make it important.'
'But I want my message to be very important. Tell her that I've
seen her father, and have offered to explain all my affairs to
him,--so that he may know that there is nothing to fear on her
behalf.'
'It isn't any thought of money that is troubling him.'
'But tell her what I say. He, however, would listen to nothing.
Then I assured him that no consideration on earth would induce me
to surrender her, and I was sure of her as I am of myself. Tell
her that;--and tell her that I think she owes to me to say one
word to me before she goes into the country.'
CHAPTER 15
ARTHUR FLETCHER.
It may, I think, be a question whether the two old men acted
wisely in having Arthur Fletcher at Wharton Hall when Emily
arrived there. The story of his love for Miss Wharton, as far as
it had yet gone, must shortly be told. He had been the second
son, as he was now the second brother, of a Hertfordshire squire
endowed with much larger property than that belonging to Sir
Alured. John Fletcher, Esq., of Longbarns, some twelve miles
from Wharton, was a considerable man in Hertfordshire. This
present squire had married Sir Alured's eldest daughter, and the
younger brother had, almost since they were children together,
been known to be in love with Emily Wharton. All the Fletchers
and everything belonging to them were almost worshipped at
Wharton Hall. There had been marriages between the two families
certainly as far back as the time of Henry VII, and they were
accustomed to speak, if not of alliances, at any rate of
friendships, much anterior to that. As regards family,
therefore, the pretensions of a Fletcher would always be held to
be good by a Wharton. But this Fletcher was the very pearl of
the Fletcher tribe. Though a younger brother, he had a very
pleasant little fortune of his own. Though born to comfortable
circumstances, he had worked so hard in his younger days as to
have already made for himself a name at the bar. He was a fair-
haired, handsome fellow, with sharp, eager eyes, with an aquiline
nose and just that shape of mouth and chin which such men as Abel
Wharton regarded as characteristic of good blood. He was rather
thin, about five feet ten in height, and had the character of
being one of the best horsemen in the county. He was one of the
most popular men in Hertfordshire, and at Longbarns was almost as
much thought of as the squire himself. He certainly was not the
man to be taken, from his appearance, for a forlorn lover. He
looked like one of those happy sons of the gods who are born to
success. No young man of his age was more courted both by men
and women. There was no one who in his youth had suffered fewer
troubles from those causes of trouble which visit English young
men,--occasional impecuniosity, sternness of parents, native
shyness, fear of ridicule, inability of speech, and a general
pervading sense of inferiority combined with an ardent desire to
rise to a feeling of conscious superiority. So much had been
done for him by nature that he was never called upon to pretend
to anything. Throughout the county those were the lucky men--
and those too were the happy girls,--who were allowed to call
him Arthur. And yet this paragon was vainly in love with Emily
Wharton, who, in the way of love, would have nothing to say to
him, preferring,--as her father once said in extreme wrath,--a
greasy Jew adventurer out of the gutter!
And now it had been thought expedient to have him down to
Wharton, although the lawyer's regular summer vacation had not
yet commenced. But there was some excuse made for this, over and
above the emergency of his own love, in the fact that his brother
John, with Mrs Fletcher, was also to be at the Hall,--so that
there was gathered there a great family party of the Whartons and
Fletchers; for there was present there also old Mrs Fletcher, a
magnificently aristocratic and high-minded old lady, with snow-
white hair, and lace worth fifty guineas a yard, who was as
anxious as everybody else that her younger son should marry Emily
Wharton. Something of the truth as to Emily Wharton's 60,000
pounds was, of course, known to the Longbarns people. Not that I
would have it inferred that they wanted their darling to sell
himself for money. The Fletchers were great people, with great
spirits, too good in every way for such baseness. But when love,
old friendship, good birth, together with every other propriety
as to age, manners, and conduct, can be joined in money, such a
combination will always be thought pleasant.
When Arthur reached the Hall it was felt to be necessary that a
word should be said to him as to that wretched interloper,
Ferdinand Lopez. Arthur had not of late been often in Manchester
Square. Though always most cordially welcomed by old Wharton,
and treated with kindness by Emily Wharton short of that love
which he desired, he had during the last three or four months
abstained from frequenting the house. During the past winter,
and early in the spring, he had pressed his suit--but had been
rejected, with warmest assurances of all friendship short of
love. It had then been arranged between him and the elder
Whartons that they should all meet down in the Hall, and there
had been sympathetic expressions of hope that all might yet be
well. But at that time little or nothing had been known of
Ferdinand Lopez.
But now the old baronet spoke to him, the father having deputed
the loathsome task to his friend,--being unwilling himself even
to hint at his daughter's disgrace. 'Oh, yes, I've heard of
him,' said Arthur Fletcher. 'I met him with Everett and I don't
think I ever took a stronger dislike to a man. Everett seems
very fond of him.' The baronet mournfully shook his head. It
was sad to find that Whartons could go so far astray. 'He goes
to Carlton Terrace,--to the Duchess's,' continued the young man.
'I don't think that is very much in his favour,' said the
baronet.
'I don't know that it is, sir,--only they try to catch all fish
in that net that are of any use.'
'Do you go there, Arthur?'
'I should if I were asked, I suppose. I don't know who wouldn't.
You see it's a Coalition affair, so that everybody is able to
feel that he is supporting his party by going to the Duchess's.'
'I hate Coalitions,' said the baronet. 'I think they are
disgraceful.'
'Well;--yes; I don't know. The coach has to be driven somehow.
You mustn't stick in the mud, you know. And after all, sir, the
Duke of Omnium is a respectable man, though he is a Liberal. A
Duke of Omnium can't want to send the country to the dogs.' The
old man shook his head. He did not understand much about it, but
he felt convinced that the Duke and his colleagues were sending
the country to the dogs, whatever might be their wishes. 'I
shan't think of politics for the next ten years, and so I don't
trouble myself about the Duchess's parties, but I suppose I
should go if I were asked.'
Sir Alured felt that he had not as yet begun even to approach the
difficult subject. 'I'm glad you don't like that man,' he said.
'I don't like him at all. Tell me, Sir Alured;--why is he
always going to Manchester Square?'
'Ah;--that is it.'
'He has been there constantly;--has he not?'
'No;--no I don't think that. Mr Wharton doesn't love him a bit
better than you do. My cousin thinks him a most objectionable
young man.'
'But Emily?'
'Ah--That's where it is.'
'You don't mean to say she--cares about that man!'
'He has been encouraged by that aunt of hers, who, as far as I
can make out, is a very unfit sort of person to be much with such
a girl as our dear Emily. I never saw her but once, and then I
didn't like her at all.'
'A vulgar, good-natured woman. But what can she have done? She
can't have twisted Emily round her finger.'
'I don't suppose there is very much in it, but I thought it
better to tell you. Girls take fancies into their heads,--just
for a time.'
'He's a handsome fellow, too,' said Arthur Fletcher, musing in
his sorrow.
'My cousin says he's a nasty Jew-looking man.'
'He's not that, Sir Alured. He's a handsome man with a fine
voice;---dark, and not just like an Englishman; but still I can
fancy--That's bad news for me, Sir Alured.'
'I think she'll forget him down here.'
'She never forgets anything. I shall ask her, straight away.
She knows my feeling about her, and I haven't a doubt that she'll
tell me. She's too honest to be able to lie. Has he got any
money?'
'My cousin seems to think he's rich.'
'I suppose he is. Oh, Lord! That's a blow. I wish I could have
the pleasure of shooting him as a man might a few years ago. But
what would be the good? The girl would only hate me the more
after it. The best thing to do would be to shoot myself.'
'Don't talk like that, Arthur.'
'I shan't throw up the sponge as long as there's a chance left,
Sir Alured. But it will go badly with me if I'm beat at last. I
shouldn't have thought it possible that I should have felt
anything so much.' Then he pulled his hair, and thrust his hand
into his waistcoat; and turned away, so that his old friend might
not see the tear in his eye.
His old friend also was much moved. It was dreadful to him that
the happiness of a Fletcher, and the comfort of the Whartons
generally, should be marred by a man with such a name as
Ferdinand Lopez. 'She'll never marry him without her father's
consent,' said Sir Alured.
'If she means it, of course he'll consent.'
'That I'm sure he won't. He doesn't like the man a bit better
than you do.' Fletcher shook his head. 'And he's as fond of you
as though you were already his son.'
'What does it matter? If a girl sets her heart on marrying a man,
of course, she will marry him. If he had no money it might be
different. But if he's well off, of course he'll succeed. Well
-; I suppose other men have borne the same sort of thing before
and it hasn't killed them.'
'Let us hope, my boy. I think of her quite as much as of you.'
'Yes,--we can hope. I shan't give it up. As for her, I dare
say she knows what will suit her best. I've nothing to say
against the man,--excepting that I should like to cut him into four
quarters.'
'But a foreigner!'
'Girls don't think about that,--not as you do and Mr Wharton.
And I think thy like dark, greasy men with slippery voices, who
are up to dodges and full of secrets. Well, sir, I shall go to
her at once and have it out.'
'You'll speak to my cousin?'
'Certainly I will. He has always been one of the best friends I
ever had in my life. I know it hasn't been his fault. But what
can a man do? Girls won't marry this or that because they are
told.'
Fletcher did speak to Emily's father, and learned more from him
than had been told him by Sir Alured. Indeed he learned the
whole truth. Lopez had been twice with the father pressing his
suit and had been twice repulsed, with as absolute denial as
words could convey. Emily, however, had declared her own feeling
openly, expressing her wish to marry the odious man, promising
not to do so without her father's consent, but evidently feeling
that that consent ought not to be withheld from her. All this Mr
Wharton told very plainly, walking with Arthur a little before
dinner along a shaded, lonely path, which for half a mile ran
along the very marge of the Wye at the bottom of the park. And
then he went on to speak other words which seemed to rob his
young friend of all hope. The old man was walking slowly, with
his hands clasped behind his back and with his eyes fixed on the
path as he went;--and he spoke slowly, evidently weighing his
words as he uttered them, bringing home to his hearer a
conviction that the matter discussed was one of supreme
importance to the speaker,--as to which he had thought much, so
as to be able to express his settled resolutions. 'I've told you
all now, Arthur,--only this. I do not know how long I may be
able to resist this man's claim if it be backed by Emily's
entreaties. I am thinking very much about it. I do not know
that I have really been able to think of anything else for the
last two months. It is all the world to me,--what she and
Everett do with themselves, and what she may do in this matter of
marriage is of infinitely greater importance than can befall him.
If he makes a mistake, it may be put right. But with a woman's
marrying--, vestigia nulla retrorsum. She has put off all her
old bonds and taken new ones, which must be her bonds for life.
Feeling this very strongly, and disliking this man greatly,--
disliking him, that is to say, in the view of this close
relation,--I have felt myself to be justified in so far opposing
my child by the use of a high hand. I have refused my sanction
to the marriage both to him and to her,--though in truth I have
been hard set to find any adequate reason for doing so. I have
no right to fashion my girl's life by my prejudices. My life has
been lived. Hers is to come. In this matter I should be cruel
and unnatural were I to allow myself to be governed by any
selfish inclination. Though I were to know that she would be
lost to me forever, I must give way,--if once brought to a
conviction that by not giving way I should sacrifice her young
happiness. In this matter, Arthur, I must not even think of you,
though I love you well. I must consider only my child's welfare;
and in doing so I must try to sift my own feelings and my own
judgement, and ascertain, if it be possible, whether any distance
to the man is reasonable or irrational;--whether I should serve
her or sacrifice her by obstinacy of refusal. I can speak to you
more plainly than to her. Indeed I have laid bare to you my
whole heart and my whole mind. You have all my wishes, but you
will understand that I do not promise you my continued assistance.'
When he had so spoken he put out his hand and pressed his
companion's arm. Then he turned slowly into a little by-path
which led across the park up to the house, and left Arthur
Fletcher standing alone by the river's bank.
And so by degrees the blow had come full home to him. He had
been twice refused. Then rumours had reached him,--not at first
that he had a rival, but that there was a man who might possibly
become so. And now this rivalry, and its success, were declared
to him plainly. He told himself from this moment that he had not
a chance. Looking forward he could see it. He understood the
girl's character sufficiently to be sure that she would not be
wafted about, from one lover to another, by change of scene.
Taking her to Dresden,--or to New Zealand, would only confirm in
her passion such a girl as Emily Wharton. Nothing would shake
her but the ascertained unworthiness of the man,--and not that
unless it were ascertained beneath her own eyes. And then years
must pass by before she would yield to another lover. There was
a further question, too, which he did not fail to ask himself.
Was the man necessarily unworthy because his name was Lopez, and
because he had not come of English blood?
As he strove to think of this, if not coolly yet rationally, he
sat himself down among the rocks, among which at that spot the
water made its way rapidly. There had been moments in which he
had been almost ashamed of his love,--and now he did not know
whether to be most ashamed or most proud of it. But he
recognized the fact that it was crucifying him, and that it would
continue to crucify him. He knew himself in London to be a
popular man,--one of those for whom, according to general
opinion, girls should sigh, rather than one who would break his
heart sighing for a girl. He had often told himself that it was
beneath his manliness to be despondent; that he should let such a
trouble run from him like water from a duck's back, consoling
himself with the reflection that if the girl had such bad taste
she could hardly be worthy of him. He had almost tried to belong
to that school which throws the heart away and rules by the head
alone. He knew that others,--perhaps not those who knew him
best, but who nevertheless were the companions of may of his
hours,--gave him credit for such power. Why should a man
afflict himself by the inward burden of an unsatisfied craving,
and allow his heart to sink into his very feet because a girl
would not smile when he wooed her? 'If she be not fair for me,
what care I how fair she be!' He had repeated the lines to
himself a score of times, and had been ashamed of himself because
he could not make them come true to himself.
They had not come true in the least. There he was, Arthur
Fletcher, whom all the world courted, with his heart in his very
boots! There was a miserable load within him, absolutely
palpable to his outward feeling,--a very physical pain,--which
he could not shake off. As he threw the stones into the water he
told himself that it must be so with him always. Though the
world did pet him, though he was liked at his club, and courted
in the hunting-field, and loved at balls and archery meetings,
and reputed by old men to be a rising star, he told himself that
he was so maimed and mutilated as to be only half a man. He
could not reason about it. Nature had afflicted him with a
certain weakness. One man had a hump;--another can hardly see
out of his imperfect eyes,--a third can barely utter a few
disjointed words. It was his fate to be constructed with some
weak arrangement of the blood vessels which left him in this
plight. 'The whole damned thing is nothing to me,' he said
bursting into absolute tears, after vainly trying to reassure
himself by a recollection of the good things which the world
still had in store for him.
Then he strove to console himself by thinking that he might take
a pride in his love, even though it were so intolerable a burden
to him. Was it not something to be able to love as he loved?
Was it not something at any rate that she to whom he had
condescended to stoop was worthy of all love? But even here he
could get no comfort,--being in truth unable to see very closely
into the condition of the thing. It was a disgrace to him,--to
him within his own bosom,--that she should have preferred to him
such a one as Ferdinand Lopez, and this disgrace he exaggerated,
ignoring the fact that the girl herself might be deficient in
judgement, or led away into her love by falsehood and counterfeit
attractions. To him she was such a goddess that she must be
right--and therefore his own inferiority to such a one as
Ferdinand Lopez was proved. He could take no pride in his
rejected love. He would rid himself of it at a moment's notice
if he knew the way. He would throw himself at the feet of some
second-rate, tawdry, well-born, well-known beauty of the day,--
only that there was not now left to him strength to pretend the
feeling that would be necessary. Then he heard steps, and
jumping up from his seat, stood just in the way of Emily Wharton
and her cousin Mary. 'Ain't you going to dress for dinner, young
man?' said the latter.
'I shall have time if you have, anyway,' said Arthur,
endeavouring to pluck up his spirits.
'That's nice of him;--isn't it?' said Mary. 'Why, we are
dressed. What more do you want? We came out to look for you,
though we didn't mean to come as far as this. It's past seven
now, and we are supposed to dine at a quarter past.'
'Five minutes will do for me.'
'But you've got to get to the house. You needn't be in a
tremendous hurry, because papa has only just come in from
haymaking. They've got up the last load, and there has been the
usual ceremony. Emily and I have been looking at them.'
'I wish I'd been there all the time,' said Emily. 'I do so hate
London in July.'
'So do I,' said Arthur,--'in July and all other times.'
'You hate London?' said Mary.
'Yes,--and Hertfordshire,--and other places generally. If I've
got to dress I'd better go across the park as quick as I can go,'
and so he left them. Mary turned around and looked at her
cousin, but at the moment said nothing. Arthur's passion was
well known to Mary Wharton, but Mary had as yet heard nothing of
Ferdinand Lopez.
CHAPTER 16
NEVER RUN AWAY!
During the whole of that evening there was a forced attempt on
the part of all the party at Wharton Hall to be merry,--which,
however, as is the case whenever such attempts are forced, was a
failure. There had been a haymaking harvest-home which was
supposed to give special occasion for mirth, as Sir Alured farmed
the land around the park himself, and was great in hay. 'I don't
think it pays very well,' he said with a gentle smile, 'but I
like to employ some of the people myself. I think the old people
find it easier with me than with the tenants.'
'I shouldn't wonder,' said his cousin;--'but that's charity; not
employment.'
'No, no,' exclaimed the baronet. 'They work for their wages and
do their best. Powell sees to that.' Powell was the bailiff,
who knew the length of his master's foot to a quarter of an inch,
and was quite aware that the Wharton haymakers were not to be
overtasked. 'Powell doesn't keep any cats about the place, but
what catch mice. But I am not quite sure that haymaking does
pay.'
'How do the tenants manage?'
'Of course they look to things closer. You wouldn't wish me to
let the land up to the house next door.'
'I think,' said old Mrs Fletcher, 'that a landlord should consent
to lose a little by his own farming. It does good in the long
run.' Both Mr Wharton and Sir Alured felt that this might be
very well at Longbarns, though it could hardly be afforded at
Wharton.
'I don't think I lose much by my farming,' said the squire of
Longbarns. 'I have four hundred acres on hand, and I keep my
accounts pretty regularly.'
'Johnson is a very good man, I dare say,' said the baronet.
'Like most of the others,' continued the squire, 'he's very well
as long as he's looked after. I think I know as much about it as
Johnson. Of course, I don't expect a farmer's profit; but I do
expect my rent, and I get it.'
'I don't think I manage it in quite that way,' said the baronet
in a melancholy tone.
'I'm afraid not,' said the barrister.
'John is as hard upon the men as any one of the tenants,' said
John's wife, Mrs Fletcher of Longbarns.
'I'm not hard at all,' said John, 'and you understand nothing
about it. I'm paying three shillings a week more to every man,
and eighteen pence a week more to every woman, than I did three
years ago.'
'That's because of the Unions,' said the barrister.
'I don't care a straw for the Unions. If the Unions interfered
with my comfort, I'd let the land and leave the place.'
'Oh, John!' ejaculated John's mother.
'I would not consent to be made a slave even for the sake of the
country. But the wages had to be raised,--having raised them I
expect to get proper value for my money. If anything has to be
given away, let it be given away,--so that the people should
know what it is that they receive.'
'That's just what we don't want to do here,' said Lady Wharton,
who did not often join in any of these arguments.
'You're wrong, my lady,' said her stepson. 'You're only breeding
idleness when you teach people to think that they are earning
wages without working for their money. Whatever you do with
them, let them know and feel the truth. It'll be the best in the
long run.'
'I'm sometimes happy when I think that I shan't live to see the
long run,' said the baronet. This was the manner in which they
tried to be merry that evening after dinner at Wharton Hall. The
two girls sat listening to their seniors in contented silence,--
listening or perhaps thinking of their own peculiar troubles,
while Arthur Fletcher held some book in his hand which he strove
to read with all his might.
There was not one there in the room who did not know that it was
the wish of the united families that Arthur Fletcher should marry
Emily Wharton, and also that Emily had refused him. To Arthur of
course the feeling that it was so could not but be an additional
vexation; but the knowledge had grown up and had become common in
the two families without any power on his part to prevent so
disagreeable a condition of affairs. There was not one in that
room, unless it was Mary Wharton, who was not more or less angry
with Emily, thinking her to be perverse and unreasonable. Even
to Mary her cousin's strange obstinacy was a matter of surprise and
sorrow,--for to her Arthur Fletcher was one of those demigods,
who should never be refused, who are not expected to do more than
express a wish and be accepted. Her own heart had not strayed
that way because she thought but little of herself, knowing
herself to be portionless, and believing from long thought on the
subject that it was not her destiny to the wife of any man. She
regarded Arthur Fletcher as being of all men the most lovable,--
though, knowing her own condition, she did not dream of loving
him. It did not become her to be angry with another girl on such
a cause;--but she was amazed that Arthur Fletcher should sigh in
vain.
The girl's folly and perverseness on this head were known to them
all,--but as yet her greater folly and worse perverseness, her
vitiated taste and dreadful partiality for the Portuguese
adventurer, were known but to the two old men and to poor Arthur
himself. When that sternly magnificent old lady Mrs Fletcher,--
whose ancestors had been Welsh kings in the time of the Romans,--
when she should hear this story, the roof of the old hall would
hardly be able to hold her wrath and her dismay! The old kings
had died away, but the Fletchers and the Vaughans,--of whom she
had been one,--and the Whartons remained, a peculiar people in
an age that was then surrendering itself to quick perdition, and
with peculiar duties. Among these duties, the chiefest of them
incumbent on females was that of so restraining their affections
that they should never damage the good cause by leaving it. They
might marry within the pale,--or remain single, as might be
their lot. She would not take upon herself to say that Emily
Wharton was bound to accept Arthur Fletcher, merely because such
a marriage was fitting,--although she did think that there was
much perverseness in the girl, who might have taught herself, had
she not been so stubborn, to comply with the wishes of the
families. But to love one so below herself, a man without a
father, a foreigner, a black Portuguese Jew, merely because he
had a bright eye, and a hook nose, and a glib tongue,--that a
girl from the Whartons should do this,--! It was so unnatural
to Mrs Fletcher that it would be hardly possible to her to be
civil to the girl after she had heard that her mind and taste were so
astray. All this Sir Alured knew and the barrister knew it,--
and they feared her indignation the more because they sympathized
with the old lady's feelings.
'Emily Wharton doesn't seem to me to be a bit more gracious than
she used to be,' Mrs Fletcher said to Lady Wharton that night.
The two old ladies were sitting together upstairs, and Mrs John
Fletcher was with them. In such conferences Mrs Fletcher always
domineered,--to perfect contentment of old Lady Wharton, but not
equally so to that of her daughter-in-law.
'I'm afraid she's not very happy,' said Lady Wharton.
'She has everything that ought to make a girl happy, and I don't
know what it is she wants. It makes me quite angry to see her so
discontented. She doesn't say a word, but sits there as glum as
death. If I were Arthur I would leave her for six months, and
never speak to her during that time.'
'I suppose, mother,' said the younger Mrs Fletcher,--who called
her husband's mother, mother, and her own mother, mamma,--'a
girl needn't marry a man unless she likes him.'
'But she should try to like him if it's suitable in other
respects. I don't mean to take any trouble about it. Arthur
needn't beg for any favour. Only I wouldn't have come here if I
had thought that she had intended to sit silent like that
always.'
'It makes her unhappy, I suppose,' said Lady Wharton, 'because
she can't do what we all want.'
'Fall, lall! She'd have wanted it herself if nobody else had
wished it. I'm surprised that Arthur should be so much taken
with her.'
'You'd better say nothing more about it, mother.'
'I don't mean to say anything more about it. It's nothing to me.
Arthur can do very well in the world without Emily Wharton. Only
a girl like that will sometimes make a disgraceful match; and we
should all feel that.'
'I don't think Emily will do anything disgraceful,' said Lady
Wharton. And so they parted.
In the meantime the two brothers were smoking their pipes in the
housekeeper's room, which, at Wharton, when the Fletchers or
Everett were there, was freely used for that purpose.
'Isn't it rather quaint of you,' said the elder brother, 'coming
down here in the middle of term time?'
'It doesn't matter much.'
'I should have thought it would matter;--that is, if you mean to
go on with it.'
'I'm not going to make a slave of myself about it, if you mean
that. I don't suppose I shall ever marry,--and for rising to be
a swell in the profession, I don't care about it.'
'You used to care about it,--very much. You used to say that if
you didn't get to the top it shouldn't be your own fault.'
'And I have worked;--and I do work. But things get changed
somehow. I've half a mind to give it all up,--to raise a lot of
money, and to start off with a resolution to see every corner of
the world. I suppose a man could do it in about thirty years if
he lived so long. It's the kind of thing that would suit me.'
'Exactly. I don't know of any fellow who has been more into
society, and therefore you are exactly the man to live alone for
the rest of your life. You've always worked hard, I will say
that for you;--and therefore you're just the man to be contented
with idleness. You've always been ambitious and self-confident,
and therefore it will suit you to a T, to be nobody, and to do
nothing.' Arthur sat silent, smoking his pipe with all his
might, and his brother continued,--'Besides,--you read
sometimes, I fancy.'
'I should read all the more.'
'Very likely. But what you have read, in the old plays, for
instance, must have taught you that when a man is cut about a
woman,--which I suppose is your case just at present,--he never
does get over it. He never gets all right after a time,--does
he? Such a one had better go and turn monk at once, as the world
is over for him altogether;--isn't it? Men don't recover after
a month or two, and go on just the same. You've never seen that
kind of thing yourself?'
'I'm not going to cut my throat or turn monk either.'
'No. There are so many steamboats and railways now that
travelling seems easier. Suppose you go as far as St Petersburg,
and see if that does you any good. If it don't, you needn't go
on, because it will be hopeless. If it does,--why, you can come
back, because the second journey will do the rest.'
'There never was anything, John, that wasn't a matter for chaff
with you.'
'And I hope there never will be. People understand it when logic
would be thrown away. I suppose the truth is the girl cares for
somebody else.' Arthur nodded his head. 'Who is it? Anyone I
know?'
'I think not.'
'Anyone you know?'
'I have met the man.'
'Decent?'
'Disgustingly indecent, I should say.' John looked very black,
for even with him the feeling about the Whartons and the Vaughans
and the Fletchers was very strong. 'He's a man I should say you
wouldn't let into Longbarns.'
'There might be various reasons for that. It might be that you
wouldn't care to meet him.'
'Well;--no,--I don't suppose I should. But without that you
wouldn't like him. I don't think he's an Englishman.'
'A foreigner!'
'He has got a foreign name.'
'An Italian nobleman?'
'I don't think he's noble in any country.'
'Who the d-d is he?'
'His name is--Lopez.'
'Everett's friend?'
'Yes,--Everett's friend. I ain't very much obliged to Master
Everett for what he has done.'
'I've seen the man. Indeed I may say I know him,--for I dined
with him at Manchester Square. Old Wharton himself must have
asked him there.'
'He was there as Everett's friend. I only heard all this to-day,
you know,--though I had heard about it before.'
'And therefore you want me to set out your travels. As far as I
saw I should say he was a clever fellow.'
'I don't doubt that.'
'And a gentleman.'
'I don't know that he is not,' said Arthur. 'I've no right to
say word against him. From what Wharton says I suppose he's
rich.'
'He's good-looking too;--at least he's the sort of man that
women like to look at.'
'Just so. I've no cause to quarrel with him,--nor with her.
But--'
'Yes, my friend. I see it all,' said the elder brother. 'I
think I know all about it. But running away is not the thing.
One may be pretty nearly sure that one is right when one says
that a man shouldn't run away from anything.'
'The thing is to be happy if you can,' said Arthur.
'No;--that's not the thing. I'm not much of a philosopher, but
as far as I can see there are two philosophies in the world. The
one is to make one's self happy, and the other is to make other
people happy. The latter answers the best.'
'I can't add to her happiness by hanging about London.'
'That's a quibble. It isn't her happiness we are talking about,
--nor yet your hanging about London. Gird yourself up and go on
with what you've got to do. Put your work before your feelings.
What does a poor man do, who goes out hedging and ditching with a
dead child lying in his house? If you get a blow in the face,
return it if it ought to be returned, but never complain of the
pain. If you must have your vitals eaten into,--have them eaten
into like a man. But mind you,--these ain't your vitals.'
'It goes pretty near.'
'These ain't your vitals. A man gets cured of it,--almost
always. I believe always; though some men get hit so hard they
can never bring themselves to try it again. But tell me this.
Has old Wharton given his consent?'
'No. He has refused,' said Arthur with strong emphasis.
'How is to be, then?'
'He has dealt very fairly by me. He has done all he could to get
rid of the man,--both with him and with her. He has told Emily
that he will have nothing to do with the man. And she will do
nothing without his sanction.'
'Then it will remain as it is.'
'No, John; it will not. He has gone on to say that though he has
refused,--and has refused roughly enough,--he must give way if
he sees that she has really set her heart upon him. And she
has.'
'Has she told you so?'
'No;--but he has told me. I shall have it out with her to-
morrow, if I can. And then I shall be off.'
'You'll be here for the shooting on the 1st?'
'No. I dare say you're right in what you say about sticking to
my work. It does seem unmanly to run away because of a girl.'
'Because of anything! Stop and face it, whatever it is.'
'Just so;--but I can't stop and face her. It would do no good.
For all our sakes I should be better away. I can get shooting
with Musgrave and Carnegie in Perthshire. I dare say I shall go
there, and take a share with them.'
'That's better than going into all quarters of the globe.'
'I didn't mean that I was to surrender and start at once. You
take a fellow up so short. I shall do very well, I've no doubt,
and shall be hunting here as jolly as ever at Christmas. But a
fellow must say it all to somebody.' The elder brother put his
hand out and laid it affectionately upon the younger one's arm.
'I'm not going to whimper about the world like a whipped dog.
The worst of it is so many people have known of this.'
'You mean down here.'
'Oh;--everywhere. I have never told them. It has been a kind
of family affair and thought to be fit for general discussions.'
'That'll wear away.'
'In the meantime, it's a bore. But that shall be the end of it.
Don't you say another word to me about it, and I won't to you.
And tell mother not to, or Sarah.' Sarah was John Fletcher's
wife. 'It has got to be dropped, and let us drop it as quickly
as we can. If she does marry this man, I don't suppose she'll be
much at Longbarns or Wharton.'
'Not at Longbarns certainly, I should say,' replied John. 'Fancy
mother having to curtsey to her as Mrs Lopez! And I doubt
whether Sir Alured would like him. He isn't of our sort. He's
too clever, too cosmopolitan,--a sort of man whitewashed of all
prejudices, who wouldn't mind whether he ate horseflesh or beef
if horseflesh were as good as beef, and never had on any occasion
in his life. I'm not sure that he's not on the safest side.
Good-night, old fellow. Pluck up, and send us plenty of grouse
if you do go to Scotland.'
John Fletcher, as I hope may have been already seen, was by no
means a weak man or an indifferent brother. He was warm-hearted,
sharp-witted, and though perhaps a little self-opinionated,
considered throughout the county to be one of the most prudent in
it. Indeed no one ever ventured to doubt his wisdom on all
practical matters,--save his mother, who seeing him almost every
day, had a stronger bias towards her younger son. 'Arthur has
been hit hard about that girl,' he said to his wife that night.
'Emily Wharton?'
'Yes;--your cousin Emily. Don't say anything to him, but be as
good to him as you know how.'
'Good to Arthur! Am I not always good to him?'
'Be a little more than usually tender with him. It makes one
almost cry to see such a fellow hurt like that. I can understand
it, though I never had anything of it myself.'
'You never had, John,' said the wife leaning close upon the
husband's breast as she spoke. 'It all came very easily to you;
--too easily perhaps.'
'If any girl had refused me, I should have taken her at her word.
I can tell you. There would have been no second "hop" to that
ball.'
'Then I suppose I was right to catch it the first time?'
'I don't say how that may be.'
'I was right. Oh, dear me!--Suppose I had doubted, just for
once, and you had gone off. You should have tried once more,--
wouldn't you?'
'You'd have gone about it like a broken-winged old hen, and have
softened me in that way.'
'And now Arthur has had his wing broken.'
'You mustn't let on to know it's broken, and the wing will be
healed in due time. But what fools girls are!'
'Indeed they are, John,--particularly me.'
'Fancy a girl like Emily Wharton,' said he, not condescending to
notice her little joke, 'throwing herself over a fellow like
Arthur for a greasy, black foreigner.'
'A foreigner!'
'Yes,--a man named Lopez. Don't say anything about it at
present. Won't she live to find out the difference, and to know
what she has done! I can tell her of one who won't pity her.'
CHAPTER 17
GOOD-BYE.
Arthur Fletcher received his brother's teaching as true, and took
his brother's advice in good part,--so that, before the morning
following, he had resolved that however the deep the wound might
be, he would so live before the world, that the world should not
see his wound. What people already knew they must know,--but
they should learn nothing further either by words or by signs
from him. He would, as he had said to his brother, 'have it out
with Emily'; and then, if she told him plainly that she loved the
man, he would bid her adieu, simply expressing regret that their
course for life should be divided. He was confident that she
would tell him the entire truth. She would be restrained neither
by false modesty, nor by any assumed unwillingness to discuss her
own affairs with a friend so true to her as he had been. He knew
her well enough to be sure that she recognized the value of his
love though she could not bring herself to accept it. There are
rejected lovers who, merely because they are lovers, become
subject to the scorn and even the disgust of the girls they love.
But again there are men who, even when they are rejected, are
almost loved, who are considered to be worthy of the reverence,
almost of worship;--and yet the worshippers will not love them.
Not analysing all this, but somewhat conscious of the light in
which this girl regarded him, he knew that what he might say
would be treated with deference. As to shaking her,--as to
talking her out of one purpose and into another,--that to him
did not for a moment seem to be practicable. There was no hope
of that. He hardly knew why he should endeavour to say a word to
her before he left Wharton. And yet he felt that it must be
said. Were he to allow her to be married to this man, without
any further previous word between them, it would appear that he
had resolved to quarrel with her for ever. But now, at this very
moment of time, as he lay in his bed, as he dressed himself in
the morning, as he sauntered about among the new hay-stacks with
his pipe in his mouth after breakfast, he came to some conclusion
in his mind very much averse to such quarrelling.
He had loved her with all his heart. It had not been mere
drawing-room love begotten between a couple of waltzes, and
fostered by five minutes in a crush. He knew himself to be a man
of the world, and he did not wish to be other than he was. He
could talk among men as men talked, and act as men acted;--and
he could do the same with women. But there was one person who
had been to him above all, and round everything, and under
everything. There had been a private nook within him into which
there had been no entrance but for one image. There had been a
holy of holies, which he had guarded within himself, keeping it
free from all outer contamination for his own use. He had
cherished the idea of a clear fountain of ever-running water
which would at last be his, always ready for the comfort of his
own lips. Now all his hope was shattered, his trust was gone,
and his longing disappointed. But the person was the same
person, though she could not be his. The nook was there, though
she would not fill it. The holy of holies was not less holy,
though he himself might not dare to lift the curtain. The
fountain would still run,--still the clearest fountain of all,--
though he might not put his lips to it. He would never allow
himself to think of it with lessened reverence, or with changed
ideas as to her nature.
And then, as he stood leaning against a ladder which still kept
its place against one of the hay-stacks, and filled his second
pipe unconsciously, he had to realize to himself the probable
condition of his future life. Of course she would marry this man
with very little further delay. Her father had already declared
himself to be too weak to interfere much longer with her wishes.
Of course Mr Wharton would give way. And then,--what sort of
life would be her life? No one knew anything about the man.
There was an idea that he was rich,--but wealth such as his,
wealth that is subject to speculation, will fly away at a
moment's notice. He might be cruel, a mere adventurer, or a
thorough ruffian for all that was known of him. There should,
thought Arthur Fletcher to himself, be more stability in the
giving and taking of wives than could be reckoned upon here. He
became old in that half-hour, taking home to himself and
appreciating many saws of wisdom and finger-direction experience
which hitherto had been to him matters almost of ridicule. But
he could only come to this conclusion,--that as she was still to
be to him his holy of holies though he might not lay his hand
upon the altar, his fountain though he might not drink of it, the
one image which alone could have filled that nook, he would not
cease to regard her happiness when she should have become the
wife of this stranger. With the stranger himself he never could
be on friendly terms;--but for the stranger's wife there should
always be a friend, if the friend were needed.
About an hour before lunch John Fletcher, who had been hanging
about the house all the morning in a manner very unusual to him,
caught Emily Wharton as she was passing through the hall, and
told her that Arthur Fletcher was in a certain part of the
grounds and wished to speak to her. 'Alone?' she asked. 'Yes,
certainly alone.' 'Ought I to go to him, John?' she asked again.
'Certainly I think you ought.' Then he had done his commission
and was able to apply himself to whatever business he had in
hand.
Emily at once put on her hat, took her parasol, and left the
house. There was something distasteful to her in the idea of
this going out at lover's bidding, to meet him; but like all
Whartons and all Fletchers, she trusted John Fletcher. And then
she was aware that there were circumstances which might make a
meeting such as this serviceable. She knew nothing of what had
taken place during the last four-and-twenty hours. She had no
idea that in consequence of words spoken to him by her father and
his brother, Arthur Fletcher was about to abandon his suit.
There would have been no doubt about her going to meet him had
she thought of it. She supposed that she would have to hear
again the old story. If so, she would hear it, and would then
have an opportunity of telling him that her heart had been given
entirely to another. She knew all that she owed to him. After a
fashion she did love him. He was entitled to the kindest
consideration from her hands. But he should be told the truth.
As she entered the shrubbery he came out to meet her, giving her
his hand with a frank, easy air and pleasant smile. His smile
was as bright as the ripple of the sea, and his eye would then
gleam, and the slightest sparkle of white teeth would be seen
between his lips, and the dimple of his chin would show itself
deeper than at other times. 'It is very good of you. I thought
you'd come. John asked you, I suppose.'
'Yes;--he told me you were here, and he said I ought to come.'
'I don't know about ought, but I think it better. Will you mind
walking on, as I've something that I want to say?' Then he
turned and she turned with him into the little wood. 'I'm not
going to bother you any more my darling,' he said. 'You are
still my darling, though I will not call you so after this.' Her
heart sank almost in her bosom as she heard this,--though it was
exactly what she would have wished to hear. But now there must
be some close understanding between them and some tenderness.
She knew how much she had owed him, how good he had been to her,
how true had been his love; and she felt that words would fail
her to say that which ought to be said. 'So you have given
yourself to--one Ferdinand Lopez!'
'Yes,' she said, in a hard, dry voice. 'Yes, I have. I do not
know who told you; but I have.'
'Your father told me. It was better,--was it not?--that I
should know. You are not sorry that I should know?'
'It is better.'
'I am not going to say a word against him.'
'No;--do not do that.'
'Nor against you. I am simply here now to let you know that--I
retire.'
'You will not quarrel with me, Arthur?'
'Quarrel with you! I could not quarrel with you, if I would.
No;--there shall be no quarrel. But I do not suppose we shall
see each other very often.'
'I hope we may.'
'Sometimes, perhaps. A man should not, I think, affect to be
friends with a successful rival. I dare say he is an excellent
fellow; but how is it possible that he and I should get on
together? But you will always have one,--one beside him,--who
will love you best in this world.'
'No;--no;--no.'
'It must be so. There will be nothing wrong in that. Everyone
has some dearest friend, and you will always be mine. If
anything of evil should ever happen to you,--which of course
there won't,--there would always be someone who would--. But I
don't want to talk buncombe; I only want you to believe me.
Good-bye, and God bless you.' Then he put out his right hand,
holding his hat under his left arm.
'You are not going away?'
'To-morrow perhaps. But I will say my real good-bye to you here,
now to-day. I hope you may be happy. I hope with all my heart.
Good-bye. God bless you!'
'Oh, Arthur!' Then she put her hand in his.
'Oh, I have loved you so dearly. It has been with my whole
heart. You have never quite understood me, but it has been as
true as heaven. I have thought sometimes that had I been a
little less earnest about it, I should have been a little less
stupid. A man shouldn't let it get the better of him, as I have
done. Say good-bye to me, Emily.'
'Good-bye,' she said, still leaving her hand in his.
'I suppose that's about all. Don't let them quarrel with you
here if you can help it. Of course at Longbarns they won't like
it for a time. Oh,--if it could have been different!' Then he
dropped her hand, and turning his back quickly upon her, went
away along the path.
She had expected and had almost wished that he should kiss her.
A girl's cheek is never so holy to herself as it is to her lover,
--if he do love her. There would have been something of
reconciliation, something of a promise of future kindness in a
kiss, which even Ferdinand would not have grudged. It would, for
her, have robbed the parting of that bitterness of pain which his
words had given to it. As to all that he had made no
calculation; but the bitterness was there for him, and he could
have done nothing that would have expelled it.
She wept bitterly as she returned to the house. There might have
been cause for joy. It was clear enough that her father, though
he had shown no sign of yielding, was nevertheless prepared to
yield. It was her father who had caused Arthur Fletcher to take
himself off, as a lover really dismissed. But, at this moment,
she could not bring herself to look at that aspect of the affair.
Her mind would revert to all those choicest moments in her early
years in which she had been happy with Arthur Fletcher, in which
she had first learned to love him, and had then taught herself to
understand by some confused and perplexed lesson that she did not
love him as men and women love. But why should she not so have
loved him? Would she not have done so could she then have
understood how true and firm he was? And then, independently of
herself, throwing herself aside for the time as she was bound to
do when thinking of one so good to her as Arthur Fletcher, she
found that no personal joy could drown the grief which she shared
with him. For a moment the idea of a comparison between the men
forced itself upon her,--but she drove it from her as she
hurried back into the house.
CHAPTER 18
THE DUKE OF OMNIUM THINKS OF HIMSELF.
The blaze made by the Duchess of Omnium during the three months
of the season up in London had been very great, but it was little
in comparison with the social incursion expected to be achieved
at Gatherum Castle,--little at least as far as public report
went, and the general opinion of the day. No doubt the house in
Carlton Gardens had been thrown open as the house of no Prime
Minister, perhaps of no duke, had been opened before in this
country; but it had been done by degrees, and had not been
accomplished by such a blowing of trumpets as was sounded with
reference to the entertainments at Gatherum. I would not have it
supposed that the trumpets were blown by the direct order of the
Duchess. The trumpets were blown by the customary trumpeters as
it became known that great things were to be done,--all
newspapers and very many tongues lending their assistance, till
the sounds of the instruments almost frightened the Duchess
herself. 'Isn't it odd,' she said to her friend Mrs Finn, 'that
one can't have a few friends down in the country without such a
fuss abut it as the people are making?' Mrs Finn did not think
it was odd, and so she said. Thousands of pounds were being
spent in a very conspicuous way. Invitations to the place even
for a couple of days,--for twenty-four hours,--had been begged
for abjectly. It was understood everywhere that the Prime
Minister was bidding for greatness and popularity. Of course the
trumpets were blown very loudly. 'If people don't take care,'
said the Duchess, 'I'll put everybody off and have the whole
place shut up. I'd do it for sixpence now.'
Perhaps of all the persons, much or little concerned, the one who
heard the least of the trumpets,--or rather who was the last to
hear them,--was the Duke himself. He could not fail to see
something in the newspapers, but what he did see did not attract
him so frequently or so strongly as did the others. It was a
pity, he thought, that a man's social and private life should be
subject to so many remarks, but this misfortune was one of those
to which wealth and rank are liable. He had long recognized that
fact, and for a time endeavoured to believe that his intended
sojourn at Gatherum Castle was not more public than are the
autumn doings of other dukes and other prime ministers. But
gradually the trumpets did reach even his ears. Blind as he was
to many things himself, he always had near to him that other duke
who was never blind to anything. 'You are going to do great
things at Gatherum this year,' said the Duke.
'Nothing particular, I hope,' said the Prime Minister, with an
inward trepidation,--for gradually there had crept upon him a
fear that his wife was making a mistake.
'I thought it was going to be very particular.'
'It's Glencora's doing.'
'I don't doubt but that her Grace is right. Don't suppose that I
am criticizing your hospitality. We are to be at Gatherum
ourselves about the end of the month. It will be the first time
I shall have seen the place since your uncle's time.'
The Prime Minister at this moment was sitting in his own
particular room at the Treasury Chambers, and before the entrance
of his friend had been conscientiously endeavouring to define for
himself not a future policy, but the past policy of the last
month or two. It had not been for him a very happy occupation.
He had become the Head of Government,--and had not failed, for
there he was, still the Head of Government, with a majority at
his back, and the six months' vacation before him. They who were
entitled to speak to him confidentially as to his position, were
almost vehement in declaring his success. Mr Rattler, about a
week ago, had not seen any reason why the Ministry should not
endure at least for the next four years. Mr Roby, from the other
side, was equally confident. But, on looking back at what he had
done, and indeed on looking forward into his future intentions,
he could not see why he, of all men, should be Prime Minister.
He had once been Chancellor of the Exchequer, filling that office
through two halcyon sessions, and he had known the reason why he
had held it. He had ventured to assure himself at the time that
he was the best man whom his party could then have found for that
office, and he had been satisfied. But he had none of that
satisfaction now. There were men under him who were really at
work. The Lord Chancellor had legal reforms on foot. Mr Monk
was busy, heart and soul, in regard to income taxes and brewers'
licences,--making our poor Prime Minister's mouth water. Lord
Drummond was active among the colonies. Phineas Finn had at any
rate his ideas about Ireland. But with the Prime Minister,--so
at least the Duke told himself,--it was all a blank. The policy
confided to him and expected at his hands was that of keeping
together a Coalition Ministry. That was a task that did not
satisfy him. And now, gradually,--very slowly indeed at first,
but still with a sure step,--there was creeping upon him the
idea that this power of cohesion was sought for, and perhaps
found not in his political capacity, but in his rank and wealth.
It might in fact, be the case that it was his wife the Duchess--
that Lady Glencora of whose wild impulses and general
impracticability he had always been in dread,--that she with her
dinner parties and receptions, with her crowded saloons, her
music, her picnics, and social temptations, was Prime Minister
rather than he himself. It might be that this had been
understood by the coalesced parties,--by everybody, in fact,
except himself. It had, perhaps, been found that in the state of
things then existing, a ministry could be kept together, not by
parliamentary capacity, but by social arrangements, such as his
Duchess, and his Duchess alone, could carry out. She and she
only would have the spirit and the money and the sort of
cleverness required. In such a state of things he of course, as
her husband, must be the nominal Prime Minister.
There was no anger in his bosom as he thought of this. It would
be hardly just to say that there was jealousy. His nature was
essentially free from jealousy. But there was shame,--and self-
accusation at having accepted so great an office with so little
fixed purpose as to great work. It might be his duty to
subordinate even his pride to the service of his country, and to
consent to be a faineant minister, a gilded Treasure log, because
by remaining in that position he would enable the Government to
be carried on. But how base the position, how mean, how
repugnant to that grand idea of public work which had hitherto
been the motive power of all his life! How would he continue to
live if this thing were to go on from year to year,--he
pretending to govern while others governed,--taking the highest
place at all tables, receiving mock reverence, and known to all
men as faineant First Lord of the Treasury? Now, as he had been
thinking of all this, the most trusted of his friends had come to
him, and had at once alluded to the very circumstances which had
been pressing so heavily on his mind. 'I was delighted,'
continued the elder Duke, 'when I heard that you had determined
to go to Gatherum this year.'
'If a man has a big house I suppose he ought to live in it,
sometimes.'
'Certainly. It was for such purposes as this now intended that
your uncle built it. He never became a public man, and
therefore, though he went there, every year I believe, he never
really used it.'
'He hated it,--in his heart. And so do I. And so does
Glencora. I don't see why any man should have his private life
interrupted by being made to keep a huge caravansary open for
persons he doesn't care a straw about.'
'You would not like to live alone.'
'Alone,--with my wife and children,--I would certainly, during
a portion of the year at least.'
'I doubt whether such a life, even for a month, even for a week,
is compatible with your duties. You would hardly find it
possible. Could you do without your private secretaries? Would
you know enough of what is going on, if you did not discuss
matters with others? A man cannot be both private and public at
the same time.'
'And therefore one has to be chopped up, like a reed out of the
river, as the poet said, and yet not give sweet music
afterwards.' The Duke of St Bungay said nothing in answer to
this, as he did not understand the chopping of the reed. 'I'm
afraid I've been wrong about this collection of people down at
Gatherum,' continued the younger Duke. 'Glencora is impulsive,
and has overdone the thing. Just look at that.' And he handed a
letter to his friend. The old Duke put on his spectacles and
read the letter through,--which ran as follows.
Private
MY LORD DUKE,
I do not doubt but that your Grace is aware of my
position in regard to the public press of the country,
and I beg to assure your Grace that my present
proposition is made, not on account of the great honour
and pleasure which would be conferred upon myself should
your Grace accede to it, but because I feel assured that
I might so be best enabled to discharge an important duty
for the benefit of the public generally.
Your Grace is about to receive the whole fashionable
world of England and many distinguished foreign
ambassadors at your ancestral halls, not solely for
social delight,--for a man in your Grace's high position
is not able to think only of a pleasant life,--in order
that the prestige of your combined Ministry may be so
best maintained. That your Grace is thereby doing a duty
to your country no man who understands the country can
doubt. But it must be the case that the country at large
should interest itself in your festivities, and should
demand to have accounts of the gala doings of your ducal
palace. Your Grace will probably agree with me that
these records could be better given by one empowered by
yourself to give them, by one who had less present, and
who would write in your Grace's interest, than by some
interloper who would receive his tale only at second
hand.
It is my purport now to inform your Grace that should I
be honoured by an invitation to your Grace's party at
Gatherum, I should obey such a call with the greatest
alacrity, and would devote my pen and the public organ
which is at my disposal to your Grace's service with the
readiest good-will.
I have the honour to be,
My Lord Duke,
Your Grace's obedient
and very humble servant
QUINTUS SLIDE
The old Duke, when he had read the letter, laughed heartily.
'Isn't that a terribly bad sign of the times?' said the younger.
'Well;--hardly that, I think. The man is both a fool and a
blackguard; but I don't think we are therefore to suppose that
there are many fools and blackguards like him. I wonder what he
really has wanted.'
'He has wanted me to ask him to Gatherum.'
'He can hardly have expected that. I don't think he can have
been such a fool. He may have thought that there was a possible
off chance, and that he would not lose even that for want of
asking. Of course you won't have noticed it.'
'I have asked Warburton to write to him, saying that he cannot be
received at my house. I have all letters answered unless they
seem to have come from insane persons. Would it not shock you if
your private arrangements were invaded in that way?'
'He can't invade you.'
'Yes he can. He does. That is an invasion. And whether he is
there or not, he can and will write about my house. And though
no one else will make himself such a fool as he has done by this
letter, nevertheless even that is a sign of what others are
doing. You yourself were saying just now that we were going to
do something,--something particular, you said.'
'It was your word, and I echoed it. I suppose you are going to
have a great many people?'
'I am afraid Glencora has overdone it. I don't know why I should
trouble you by saying so, but it makes me uneasy.'
'I can't see why.'
'I fear she has got some idea into her head of astounding the
world by display.'
'I think she has got an idea of conquering the world by
graciousness and hospitality.'
'It is as bad. It is, indeed, the same thing. Why should she
want to conquer what we call the world? She ought to want to
entertain my friends, because they are my friends; and if from
my public position I have more so-called friends than would
trouble me in a happier condition of private life, why, then, she
must entertain more people, as you call it, by feeding them, is
to me abominable. If it goes on it will drive me mad. I shall
have to give up everything, because I cannot bear the burden.'
This he said with more excitement, with stronger passion, than
his friend had ever seen in him before; so much so that the old
Duke was frightened. 'I ought never to have been where I am,'
said the Prime Minister, getting up from his chair and walking
about the room.
'Allow me to assure you that in that you are decidedly mistaken,'
said his Grace of St Bungay.
'I cannot make even you see the inside of my heart in such a
matter as this,' said his Grace of Omnium.
'I think I do. It may be that in saying so I claim for myself
greater power than I possess, but I think I do. But let your
heart say what it may on the subject. I am sure of this,--that
when the Sovereign, by the advice of two outgoing Ministers, and
with the unequivocally expressed assent of the House of Commons,
calls on a man to serve her and the country, that man cannot be
justified in refusing, merely by doubts about his own fitness.
If your health is failing you, you may know it, and say so. Or
it may be that your honour,--your faith in others,--should
forbid you to accept the position. But of your own general
fitness you must take the verdict given by such general consent.
They have seen clearer than you have done what is required, and
know better than you can know that which is wanted is to be
secured.'
'If I am to be here and do nothing, am I to remain?'
'A man cannot keep together the Government of a country and do
nothing. Do not trouble yourself about this crowd at Gatherum.
The Duchess, easily, almost without exertion, will do that which
to you, or to me either, would be impossible. Let her have her
way, and take no notice of the Quintus Slides.' The Prime
Minister smiled, as though this repeated allusion to Mr Slide's
letter had brought back his good humour, and said nothing further
then as to his difficulties. There were a few words to be spoken
as to some future Cabinet meeting, something perhaps to be
settled as to some man's work or position, a hint to be given,
and a lesson to be learned,--for of these inner Cabinet Councils
between these two statesmen there was frequent use; and then the
Duke of St Bungay took his leave.
Our Duke, as soon as his friend had left him, rang for his
private secretary, and went to work diligently, as though nothing
had disturbed him. I do not know that his labours on that
occasion were of a very high order. Unless there be some special
effort of law-making before the country, some reform bill to be
passed, some attempt at education to be made, some fetters to be
forged or to be relaxed, a Prime Minister is not driven hard by
the work of his portfolio,--as are his colleagues. But many men
were in want of many things, and contrived by many means to make
their wants known to the Prime Minister. A dean would fain to be
a bishop, or a judge a chief justice, or a commissioner a
chairman, or a secretary a commissioner. Knights would fain be
baronets, baronets barons, and barons earls. In one guise or
another the wants of gentlemen were made known, and there was
work to be done. A ribbon cannot be given away without breaking
the hearts of, perhaps, three gentlemen and of their wives and
daughters. And then he went down to the House of Lords,--for
the last time this Session as far as work was concerned. On the
morrow legislative work would be over, and the gentlemen of
Parliament would be sent to their country houses, and to their
pleasant country joys.
It had been arranged that on the day after the prorogation of
Parliament the Duchess of Omnium should go down to Gatherum to
prepare for the coming of the people, which was to commence about
three days later, taking her ministers, Mrs Finn and Locock, with
her, and that her husband with his private secretaries and
dispatch boxes was to go for those three days to Matching, a
smaller place than Gatherum, but one to which they were much
better accustomed. If, as the Duchess thought to be not
unlikely, the Duke should prolong his stay for a few days at
Matching, she felt confident that she would be able to bear the
burden of the Castle on her own shoulders. She had thought it to
be very probable that he would prolong his stay at Matching, and
if the absence were not too long, this might be well explained to
the assembled company. In the Duchess's estimation a Prime
Minister would lose nothing by pleading the nature of his
business as an excuse for such absence,--or by having such a
plea made for him. Of course he must appear at last. But as to
that she had no fear. His timidity, and his conscience also,
would both be too potent to allow him to shirk the nuisance of
Gatherum altogether. He would come, she was sure; but she did
not much care how long he deferred his coming. She was,
therefore, not a little surprised when he announced to her an
alteration in his plans. This he did not many hours after the
Duke of St Bungay had left him at the Treasury Chambers. 'I
think I shall go down with you at once to Gatherum,' he said.
'What is the meaning of that?' The Duchess was not skilled in
hiding her feelings, at any rate from him, and declared to him at
once by her voice and eye that the proposed change was not
gratifying to her.
'It will be better. I had thought that I would get a quiet day
or two at Matching. But as the thing has to be done, it may as
well be done at first. A man ought to receive his own guests. I
can't say that I look forward to any great pleasure in doing so
on this occasion;--but I shall do it.' It was very easy to
understand also the tone of his voice. There was in it something
of offended dignity, something of future marital tensions,--
something also of the weakness of distress.
She did not want him to come at once to Gatherum. A great deal
of money was being spent, and the absolute spending was not yet
quite perfected. There might still be possibility of
interference. The tents were not all pitched. The lamps were
not as yet all hung in the conservatories. Waggons would still
be coming in and workmen still be going out. He would think less
of what had been done if he could be kept from seeing it while it
was being done. And the greater crowd which would be gathered
there by the end of the first week would carry off the vastness
of the preparations. As to money, he had given her almost carte
blanche, having at one vacillatory period of his Prime
Ministership been talked by her into some agreement with her own
plans. And in regard to money he would say to himself that he
ought not to interfere with any whim of hers on that score,
unless he thought it right to crush the whim on some other score.
Half what he possessed had been hers, and even if during this
year he were to spend more than his income,--if he were to
double or even treble the expenditure of past years,--he could
not consume the additions to his wealth which had accrued and
heaped themselves since his marriage. He had therefore written a
line to his banker, and a line to his lawyer, and he had himself
seen Locock, and his wife's hands had been loosened. 'I didn't
think, your Grace,' said Locock, 'that his Grace would be so
very,--very,--very--' 'Very what, Locock?' 'So very free, your
Grace.' The Duchess, as he thought of it, declared to herself
that her husband was the truest nobleman in all England. She
revered, admired, and almost loved him. She knew him to be
infinitely better than herself. But she could hardly sympathize
with him, and was quite sure that he did not sympathize with her.
He was so good about the money! But yet it was necessary that he
should be kept in the dark as the spending of a good deal of it.
Now he was going to upset a portion of her plans by coming to
Gatherum before he was wanted. She knew him to be obstinate; but
it might be possible to turn him back to his old purpose by
clever manipulation.
'Of course it would be much nicer for me,' she said.
'That alone would be sufficient.'
'Thanks, dear. But we had arranged for people to come at first
whom I thought you would not specially care to meet. Sir Orlando
and Mr Rattler will be there with their wives.'
'I have become quite used to Sir Orlando and Mr Rattler.'
'No doubt, and therefore I wanted to spare you something of their
company. The Duke, whom you really do like, isn't coming yet. I
thought, too, you would have your work to finish off.'
'I fear it is of a kind that won't bear finishing off. However,
I have made up my mind, and have already told Locock to send word
to the people at Matching to say I shall not be there yet. How
long will all this last at Gatherum?'
'Who can say?'
'I should have thought you could. People are not coming, I
suppose, for an indefinite time.'
'As one set leaves, one asks others.'
'Haven't you asked enough as yet? I should like to know when we
may expect to get away from the place.'
'You needn't stay to the end, you know.'
'But you must.'
'Certainly.'
'And I should wish you to go with me when we do go to Matching.'
'Oh, Plantagenet,' said the wife, 'what a Darby and Joan kind of
thing you like to have it!'
'Yes I do. The Darby and Joan kind of thing is what I like.'
'Only Darby is to be in an office all day, and in Parliament all
night,--and Joan is to stay at home.'
'Would you wish me not to be in an office, and not to be in
Parliament? But don't let us misunderstand each other. You are
doing the best you can to further what you think are my
interests.'
'I am,' said the Duchess.
'I love you the better for it, day by day.' This so surprised
her that, as she took him by the arm, her eyes were filled with
tears. 'I know that you are working for me quite as hard as I
work myself, and that you are doing so with the pure ambition of
seeing your husband a great man.'
'And myself as a great man's wife.'
'It is the same thing. But I would not have you overdo your
work. I would not have you make yourself conspicuous by anything
like display. There are ill-natured people who will say things
that you do not expect, and to which I should be more sensitive
than I ought to be. Spare me such pain as this if you can.' He
still held her hand as he spoke, and she answered him only by
nodding her head. 'I will go down with you to Gatherum on
Friday.' Then he left her.
CHAPTER 19
VULGARITY.
The Duke and Duchess with their children and personal servants
reached Gatherum Castle the day before the first crowd of
visitors was expected. It was on a lovely autumn afternoon, and
the Duke, who had endeavoured to make himself pleasant during the
journey, had suggested that as soon as the heat would allow them
they would saunter around the grounds and see what was being
done. They could dine late, at half-past eight or nine, so that
they might be walking from seven to eight. But the Duchess when
she reached the Castle declined to fall in with this arrangement.
The journey had been hot and dusty, and she was a little cross.
They reached the place about five, and then she declared that she
would have a cup of tea and lie down; she was too tired to walk;
and the sun, she said, was still scorchingly hot. He then asked
that the children might go with him, but the two little girls
were very weary and travel-worn, and the two boys, the elder of
whom was home from Eton and the younger from some minor Eton,
were already about the place after their own pleasures. So the
Duke started for his walk alone.
The Duchess certainly did not wish to have to inspect the works
in conjunction with her husband. She knew how much there was
that she ought still to do herself, how many things that she
herself ought to see. But she could neither do anything nor see
anything to any purpose under his wing. As to lying down, that
she knew to be quite out of the question. She had already found
out that the life which she had adopted was one of incessant
work. But she was neither weak nor idle. She was quite prepared
to work,--if only she might work after her own fashion and with
companions chosen by herself. Had not her husband been so
perverse, she would have travelled down with Mrs Finn, whose
coming was now postponed for two days, and Locock would have been
with her. The Duke had given directions, which made it necessary
that Locock's coming should be postponed for a day, and this was
another grievance. She was put out a good deal, and began to
speculate whether her husband was doing this on purpose to
torment her. Nevertheless, as soon as she knew that he was out
of the way, she went to her work. She could not go out among the
tents and lawns and conservatories, as she would probably meet
him. But she gave orders as to bedchambers, saw to the
adornments of the reception-rooms, had an eye to the banners and
martial trophies suspended in the vast hall, and the busts and
statues which adorned the corners, looked in on the plate which
was being prepared for the great dining-room, and superintended
the moving about of chairs, sofas, and tables generally. 'You
may take it as certain, Mrs Pritchard,' she said to the
housekeeper, 'that their will never be less than forty for the
next two months.'
'Forty to sleep, my lady?' To Pritchard the Duchess had for many
years been Lady Glencora, and she perhaps understood that her
mistress liked the old appellation.
'Yes, forty to sleep, and forty to eat, and forty to drink. But
that's nothing. Forty to push through twenty-four hours every
day! Do you think you've got everything you want?'
'It depends, my lady, how long each of 'em stays.'
'One night! No--say two nights on an average.'
'That makes shifting the beds very often; doesn't it, my lady?'
'Send up Puddick's for sheets tomorrow. Why wasn't that thought
of before?'
'It was, my lady,--and I think we shall do. We've got the
steam-washery put up.'
'Towels!' suggested the Duchess.
'Oh, yes, my lady. Puddick's did send a great many things;--a
whole waggon load there was come from the station. But the
tablecloths ain't none of 'em long enough for the big table.'
The Duchess's face fell. 'Of course there must be two. On them
very long tables, my lady, there always is two.'
'Why didn't you tell me, so that I could have had them made?
It's impossible,--impossible that one brain should think of it
all. Are you sure you've enough hands in the kitchen?'
'Well, my lady;--we couldn't do with more; and they ain't an
atom of use,--only just in the way,--if you don't know
something about 'em. I suppose Mr Millepois will be down soon.'
This name, which Mrs Pritchard called Milleypoise, indicated a
French cook who was at yet unknown at the Castle.
'He'll be here tonight.'
'I wish he could have been here a day or two sooner, my lady, so
as just to see about him.'
'And how should we have got our dinner in town? He won't make
any difficulties. The confectioner did come?'
'Yes, my lady; and to tell the truth out at once, he was that
drunk last night that--; oh, dear, we didn't know what to do with
him.'
'I don't mind that before the affair begins. I don't suppose
he'll get tipsy while he has to work for all these people.
You've plenty of eggs?'
These questions went on so rapidly that in addition to the asking
of them the Duchess was able to go through all the rooms before
she dressed for dinner, and in every room she saw something to
speak of, noting either perfection or imperfection. In the
meantime the Duke had gone out alone. It was still hot, but he
had made up his mind that he would enjoy his first holiday out of
town by walking about his own grounds, and he would not allow the
heat to interrupt him. He went out through the vast hall, and
the huge front door, which was so huge and so grand that it was
very seldom used. But it was now open by chance, owing to some
incident of this festival time, and he passed through it and
stood upon the grand terrace, with the well-known and much-lauded
portico overhead. Up to the terrace, though it was very high,
there ran a road, constructed upon arches, so grand that guests
could drive almost up to the house. The Duke, who was never
grand himself, as he stood there looking at the far-stretching
view before him, could not remember that he had ever but once
before placed himself on that spot. Of what use had been the
portico, the marbles, and the huge pile of stone,--of what use
the enormous hall just behind him, cutting the house in two,
declaring aloud by its own aspect and the proportions that it had
been built altogether for show and in no degree for use or
comfort? And now as he stood there he could already see that men
were at work about the place, that ground had been moved here,
and grass laid down there, and a new gravel road constructed in
another place. Was it not possible that his friends should be
entertained without all these changes to the gardens? Then he
perceived the tents, and descending from the terrace and turning
left towards the end of the house he came upon a new
conservatory. The exotics with which it was to be filled were at
this moment being brought in on great barrows. He stood for a
moment and looked, but said not a word to the men. They gazed at
him but evidently did not know him. How should they know him,--
him, who was seldom there, and who when there never showed
himself about the place? Then he went farther afield from the
house and came across more and more men. A great ha-ha fence had
been made, enclosing on three sides and open at one end to the
gardens, containing, as he thought, about an acre. 'What are you
doing this for?' he said to one of the labourers. The man stared
at him, and at first seemed hardly inclined to make him an
answer. 'It be for the quality to shoot their bows and harrows,'
he said at last, as he continued the easy task of patting with
his spade the completed work. He evidently regarded this
stranger as an intruder who was not entitled to ask questions,
even if he was permitted to wander about the grounds.
From one place he went on to another, and found changes, and new
erections, and some device for throwing away money everywhere.
It angered him to think that there was so little of simplicity
left in the world that a man could not entertain his friends
without such a fuss as this. His mind applied itself frequently
to the consideration of the money, not that he grudged the loss
of it, but the spending of it in such a cause. And then perhaps
there occurred to him an idea that all this should not have been
done without a word of consent from himself. Had she come to him
with some scheme for changing everything about the place, making
him think that the alterations were a matter of taste or of mere
personal pleasure, he would probably given his consent at once,
thinking nothing of the money. But all this was utter display.
Then he walked up and saw the flag waving over the Castle,
indicating that he, the Lord Lieutenant of the County, was
present there on his own soil. That was right. That was as it
should be, because the flag was waving in compliance with an
acknowledged ordinance. Of all that properly belonged to his
rank and station he could be very proud, and would allow no
diminution of that outward respect to which they were entitled.
Were they to be trenched on by his fault in his person, the
rights of others to their enjoyment would be endangered, and the
benefits accruing to his country from established marks of
reverence would be imperilled. But here was an assumed and
preposterous grandeur that was as much within the reach of some
rich swindler or some prosperous haberdasher as of himself,--
having, too, a look of raw newness about it which was very
distasteful to him. And then, too, he knew that nothing of this
would have been done unless he had become Prime Minister. Why,
on earth, should a man's grounds be knocked about because he
becomes Prime Minister? He walked on arguing this within his own
bosom, till he had worked himself almost up to anger. It was
clear that he must henceforth take things more into his own
hands, or would be made to be absurd before the world.
Indifference he knew he could bear. Harsh criticism he thought
he could endure. But to ridicule he was aware that he was
pervious. Suppose the papers were to say of him that he built a
new conservatory and made an archery ground for the sake of
maintaining the Coalition!
When he got back to the house he found his wife alone in the
small room in which they intended to dine. After all her labours
she was now reclining for the few minutes her husband's absence
might allow her, knowing that after dinner there were a score of
letters for her to write. 'I don't think,' said she, 'I was ever
so tired in my life.'
'It isn't such a very long journey after all.'
'But it's a very big house, and I've been, I think, into every
room since I have been here, and I've moved most of the furniture
in the drawing-rooms with my own hand, and I've counted the
pounds of butter, and inspected the sheets and the tablecloths.'
'Was it necessary, Glencora?'
'If I had gone to bed instead, the world, I suppose, would have
gone on, and Sir Orlando Drought would still have led the House
of Commons;--but things should be looked after, I suppose.'
'There are many people to do it. You are like Martha, troubling
yourself with many things.'
'I always felt that Martha was very ill-used. If there were no
Martha there would never be anything fit to eat. But it's odd
how sure a wife is to be scolded. If I did nothing at all, that
wouldn't please a busy, hard-working man like you.'
'I don't know that I have scolded,--not as yet.'
'Are you going to begin?'
'Not to scold, my dear. Looking back, can you remember that I
ever scolded you?'
'I can remember a great many times when you ought.'
'But to tell you the truth, I don't like all that you have done
here. I cannot see that it was necessary.'
'People make changes in their gardens without necessity
sometimes.'
'But these changes are made because of your guests. Had they been
made to gratify your own taste, I would have said nothing,--
although even in that case I think you might have told me what
you proposed to do.'
'What;--when you are so burdened with work that you do not know
how to turn?'
'I am never so burdened that I cannot turn to you. But, as you
know, that is not what I complain of. If it were done for
yourself, though it were the wildest vagary, I would learn to
like it, but it distresses me to think what might have been good
enough for our friends before should be thought insufficient
because of the office I hold. There is a--a--a--I was almost
going to say vulgarity about it which distresses me.'
'Vulgarity!' she exclaimed, jumping up from the sofa.
'I retract the word. I would not for the world say anything that
should annoy you;--but pray, pray do not go on with it.' Then
again he left her.
Vulgarity! There was no other word in the language so hard to
bear as that. He had, indeed, been careful to say that he did
not accuse her of vulgarity;--but nevertheless the accusation
had been made. Could you call your friend a liar more plainly
than by saying to him that you would not say that he lied? They
dined together, the two boys, also, dining with them, but very
little was said at dinner. The horrid word was clinging to the
lady's ears, and the remembrance of having uttered the word was
heavy on the man's conscience. He had told himself very plainly
that the thing was vulgar, but he had not meant to use the word.
But it had been uttered; and, let what apology there may be made,
a word uttered cannot be retracted. As he looked across the
table at his wife, he saw that the word had been taken in deep
dudgeon.
She escaped, to the writing of her letters she said, almost
before the meal was done. 'Vulgarity!' She uttered the word
aloud to herself as she sat herself down in the little room
upstairs which she had assigned to herself for her own use. But
though she was very angry with him, she did not, even in her own
mind, contradict him. Perhaps it was vulgar. But why shouldn't
she be vulgar, if she could most surely get what she wanted by
vulgarity? Of course she was prepared to do things,--was daily
doing things,--which would have been odious to her had not her
husband been a public man. She submitted, without unwillingness,
to constant contact with disagreeable people. She lavished her
smiles,--so she now said to herself,--on butchers and tinkers.
What she said, what she read, what she wrote, what she did,
whither she went, to whom she was kind and to whom unkind,--was
it not all said and done and arranged with reference to his and
her own popularity? When a man wants to be Prime Minister he has
to submit to vulgarity, and must give up his ambition if the task
be too disagreeable to him. The Duchess thought that that had
been understood, at any rate ever since the days of Coriolanus.
'The old Duke kept out of it,' she said to herself, 'and chose to
live in the other way. He had his choice. He wants it to be
done. And when I do it for him because he can't do it for
himself, he calls it by an ugly name!' Then it occurred to her
that the world tells lies every day,--telling on the whole much
more lies than truth,--but that the world has wisely agreed that
the world shall not be accused of lying. One doesn't venture to
express open disbelief even of one's wife; and with the world at
large a word spoken, whether lie or not, is presumed to be true,
of course,--because spoken. Jones has said it, and therefore
Smith,--who has known the lie to be a lie,--has asserted his
assured belief, lying again. But in this way the world is able
to live pleasantly. How was she to live pleasantly if her
husband accused her of vulgarity? Of course it was all vulgar,
but why should he tell her so? She did not do it from any
pleasure that she got from it.
The letters remained long unwritten, and then there came a moment
in which she resolved that they should not be written. The work
was very hard, and what good would come of it? Why should she
make her hands dirty, so that even her husband accused her of
vulgarity? Would it not be better to give it all up, and be a
great woman, une grande dame, of another kind,--difficult of
access, sparing of her favour, aristocratic to the back-bone,--a
very Duchess of duchesses. The role would be one very easy to
play. It required rank, money, and a little manner,--and these
she possessed. The old Duke had done it with ease, without the
slightest trouble to himself, and had been treated almost like a
god because he had secluded himself. She could make the change
even yet,--and as her husband told her that she was vulgar, she
thought she would make it.
But at last, before she had abandoned her desk and paper, there
had come another thought. Nothing to her was so distasteful as
failure. She had known that there would be difficulties, and had
assured herself that she would be firm and brave in overcoming
them. Was not this accusation of vulgarity simply one of the
difficulties which she had to overcome? Was her courage already
gone from her? Was she so weak that a single word should knock
her over,--and a word evidently repented of as soon as it was
uttered? Vulgar! Well,--let her be vulgar as long as she
gained her object. There had been no penalty of everlasting
punishment against vulgarity. And then a higher idea touched
her, not without effect,--an idea which she could not analyse,
but which was hardly on that account the less effective. She did
believe thoroughly in her husband, to the extent of thinking him
the fittest man in all the country to be its Prime Minister. His
fame was dear to her. Her nature was loyal; and though she might
perhaps, in her younger days have been able to lean upon him with
a more loving heart had he been other than he was, brighter, more
gay, given to pleasures, and fond of trifles, still, she could
recognize merits with which her sympathy was imperfect. It was
good that he should be England's Prime Minister, and therefore
she would do all she could to keep him in that place. The
vulgarity was a necessity essential. He might not acknowledge
this,--might even, if the choice were left to him, refuse to be
Prime Minister on such terms. But she need not, therefore, give
way. Having in this way thought it all out, she took up her pen
and completed the batch of letters before she allowed herself to
go to bed.
CHAPTER 20
SIR ORLANDO'S POLICY.
When the guests began to arrive our friend the Duchess had
apparently got through her little difficulties, for she received
them with that open, genial hospitality which is so delightful as
coming evidently from the heart. There had not been another word
between her and her husband as to the manner in which the thing
was to be done, and she had determined that the offensive word
should pass altogether out of her memory. The first comer was
Mrs Finn,--who came indeed rather as an assistant hostess than
as a mere guest, and to her the Duchess uttered a few playful
hints as to her troubles. 'Considering the time, haven't we done
marvels? Because it does look nice,--doesn't it? There are no
dirt heaps about, and it's all as green as though it had been
there since the conquest. He doesn't like it because it looks
new. And we've got forty-five bedrooms made up. The servants
are all turned out over the stables somewhere,--quite
comfortable, I assure you. Indeed they like it. And by knocking
down the ends of two passages we've brought everything together.
And the rooms are all numbered, just like an inn. It was the
only way. And I keep one book myself, and Locock has another. I
have everybody's room, and where it is, and how long the tenant
is to be allowed to occupy it. And here's the way everybody is
to take everybody down to dinner for the next fortnight. Of
course that must be altered, but it is easier when we have a sort
of settled basis. And I have some private notes as to who should
flirt with whom.'
'You'd better not let that lie about.'
'Nobody could understand a word of it if they had it. A. B.
always means X.Y.Z. And this is the code of the Gatherum Archery
Ground. I never drew a bow in my life,--not a real bow in the
flesh, that is, my dear,--and yet I've made 'em all out, and had
them printed. The way to make a thing go down is to give it some
special importance. And I've gone through the bill of fare for
the first week with Millepois, who is a perfect gentleman,--
perfect.' Then she gave a little sigh as she remembered that
word from her husband, which had wounded her. 'I used to think
that Plantagenet worked hard when he was doing his decimal
coinage; but I don't think he ever stuck to it as I have done.'
'What does the Duke say to it all?'
'Ah; well, upon the whole he behaves like an angel. He behaves
so well that half my time I think I'll shut it all up and have
done with it,--for his sake. And then, the other half, I'm
determined to go on with it,--again for his sake.'
'He has not been displeased?'
'Ask no questions, my dear, and you'll hear no stories. You
haven't been married twice without knowing that women can't have
everything smooth. He only said one word. It was rather hard to
bear, but it has passed away.'
That afternoon there was quite a crowd. Among the first comers
were Mr and Mrs Roby, and Mr and Mrs Rattler. And there were Sir
Orlando and Lady Drought, Lord Ramsden and Sir Timothy Beeswax.
These gentlemen with their wives represented, for the time, the
ministry of which the Duke was the head, and had been asked in
order that their fealty and submission might be thus rivetted.
There were also there Mr and Mrs Boffin, with Lord Thrift and his
daughter Angelica, who had belonged to former ministries,--one
on the Liberal and one on the Conservative side,--and who were
now among the Duke's guests, in order that they and others might
see how wide the Duke wished to open his hands. And there was
our friend Ferdinand Lopez, who had certainly made the best use
of his opportunities in securing for himself so great a social
advantage as an invitation to Gatherum Castle. How could any
father, who was simply a barrister, refuse to receive as his son-
in-law a man who had been a guest of the Duke of Omnium's country
house? And then there were certain people from the
neighbourhood;--Frank Gresham of Greshambury, with his wife and
daughter, the master of the hounds in those parts, a rich squire
of old blood, and head of the family to which one of the aspirant
Prime Ministers of the day belonged. And Lord Chiltern, another
master of fox hounds, two counties off;--and also an old friend
of ours,--had been asked to meet him, and had brought his wife.
And there Lady Rosina de Courcy, an old maid, the sister of the
present Earl de Courcy, who lived not far off, and had been
accustomed to come to Gatherum Castle on state occasions for the
last thirty years,--the only relic in those parts of a family
which had lived there for many years in great pride of place, for
the elder brother, the Earl, was a ruined man, and her younger
brothers were living with their wives abroad, and her sisters had
married, rather lowly in the world, and her mother now was dead,
and Lady Rosina lived alone in a little cottage outside the old
park palings, and still held fast within her bosom all the old
pride of the De Courcys. And then there were Captain Gunner and
Major Pountney, two middle-aged young men, presumably belonging
to the army, whom the Duchess had lately enlisted among her
followers as being useful in their way. They could eat their
dinners without being shy, dance on occasions, though very
unwillingly, talk a little, and run on messages;--and they knew
the peerage by heart, and could tell the details of every
unfortunate marriage for the last twenty years. Each thought
himself, especially since this last promotion, to be
indispensably necessary to the formation of London society, and
was comfortable in a conviction that he had thoroughly succeeded
in life by acquiring the privilege of sitting down to dinner
three times a week with peers and peeresses.
The list of guests has by no means been made as complete here as
it was to be found in the county newspapers, and in the "Morning
Post" of the time, but enough of names has been given to show of
what nature was the party. 'The Duchess has got rather a rough
lot to begin with,' said the Major to the Captain.
'Oh, yes. I knew that. She wanted me to be useful, so of course
I came. I shall stay here this week, and then be back in
September.' Up to that moment Captain Gunner had not received
any invitation for September, but then there was no reason why he
should not do so.
'I've been getting up the archery code with her,' said Pountney,
'and I was pledged to come down and set it going. That little
Gresham girl isn't a bad-looking thing.'
'Rather flabby,' said Captain Gunner.
'Very nice colour. She'll have a lot of money, you know.'
'There's a brother,' said the Captain.
'Oh, yes; there's a brother, who will have the Greshambury
property, but she's to have her mother's money. There's a very
odd story about all that, you know.' Then the Major told the
story, and told every particular of it wrongly. 'A man might do
worse than look there,' said the Major. A man might have done
worse, because Miss Gresham was a very nice girl; but of course
the Major was all wrong about the money.
'Well;--now you've tried it, what do you think about it?' This
question was put by Sir Timothy to Sir Orlando as they sat in a
corner of the archery ground, under the shelter of a tent looking
on while Major Pountney taught Mrs Boffin how to fix an arrow on
to her bow string. It was quite understood that Sir Timothy was
inimical to the Coalition though he still belonged to it, and
that he would assist in breaking it up if only there was a fair
chance of his belonging to the party which would remain in power.
Sir Timothy had been badly treated, and did not forget it. Now
Sir Orlando had also of late shown some symptoms of a disturbed
ambition. He was the Leader of the House of Commons, and it had
become an almost recognized law of the Constitution that the
leader of the House of Commons should be the First Minister of
Crown. It was at least understood by many that such was Sir
Orlando's reading of the laws of the Constitution.
'We've got along, you know,' said Sir Orlando.
'Yes;--yes. We've got along. Can you imagine any possible
concatenation of circumstances in which we should not get along?
There's always too much good sense in the House for an absolute
collapse. But are you contented?'
'I won't say I'm not,' said the cautious baronet. 'I didn't look
for very great things from a Coalition, and I didn't look for
very great things from the Duke.'
'It seems to me that the one achievement to which we've all
looked has been the reaching the end of the Sessions in safety.
We've done that certainly.'
'It is a great thing to do, Sir Timothy. Of course the main work
of Parliament is to raise supplies,--and, when that has been
done with ease, when all the money wanted has been voted without
a break-down, of course Ministers are very glad to get rid of the
Parliament. It is as much a matter of course that a Minister
should dislike Parliament now as that a Stuart King should have
done so two hundred and fifty years ago. To get a Session over
and done with is an achievement and a delight.'
'No ministry can go on long on that far niente principle, and no
Minister who accedes to it will remain long in any ministry.'
Sir Timothy in saying this might be alluding to the Duke, or the
reference might be to Sir Orlando himself. 'Of course, I'm not
in the Cabinet, and am not entitled to say a word; but I think
that if I were in the Cabinet, and I were anxious,--which I
confess I'm not,--for a continuation of the present state of
things, I should endeavour to obtain from the Duke some idea of
his policy for the next Session.' Sir Orlando was a man of
certain parts. He could speak volubly,--and yet slowly,--so
that reporters and others could hear him. He was patient, both
in the House and in his office, and had the great gift of doing
what he was told by men who understood things better than he did
himself. He never went very far astray in his official business,
because he always obeyed the clerks and followed precedents. He
had been a useful man,--and would still have remained so had he
not been lifted a little too high. Had he been only one in the
ruck on the Treasury Bench he would have been useful to the end;
but special honour and special place had been assigned to him,
and therefore he desired still bigger things. The Duke's
mediocrity of talent and of energy and of general governing power
had been so often mentioned of late in Sir Orlando's hearing,
that Sir Orlando had gradually come to think that he was the
Duke's equal in the Cabinet, and perhaps it behoved him to lead
the Duke. At the commencement of their joint operations he had
held the Duke in some awe, and perhaps something of that feeling
in reference to the Duke personally still restrained him. The
Duke of Omnium had always been big people. But still it might be
his duty to say a word to the Duke. Sir Orlando assured himself
that if ever convinced of the propriety of doing so, he could say
a word even to the Duke of Omnium. 'I am confident that we
should not go on quite as we are at present,' said Sir Timothy as
he closed the conversation.
'Where did they pick him up?' said the Major to the Captain,
pointing with his head to Ferdinand Lopez, who was shooting with
Angelica Thrift and Mr Boffin and one of the Duke's private
secretaries.
'The Duchess found him somewhere. He's one of those fabulously
rich fellows out of the City who make a hundred thousand pounds
at a blow. They say his people were grandees of Spain.'
'Does anybody know him?' asked the Major.
'Everybody will soon know him,' answered the Captain. 'I think I
heard that he's going to stand for some place in the Duke's
interest. He don't look like the sort of fellow I like; but he's
got money and he comes, and he's good-looking,--and therefore
he'll be a success.' In answer to this the Major only grunted.
The Major was a year or two older than the Captain, and therefore
less willing even than his friend to admit the claims of new
comers to the social honours.
Just at this moment the Duchess walked across the ground up to
the shooters, accompanied by Mrs Finn and Lady Chiltern. She had
not been seen in the gardens before that day, and of course a
little concourse was made around her. The Major and the Captain,
who had been driven away by the success of Ferdinand Lopez,
returned with their sweetest smiles. Mr Boffin put down his
treatise on the nature of Franchises, which he was studying in
order that he might lead an opposition against the Ministry next
Session, and even Sir Timothy Beeswax, who had done his work with
Sir Orlando, joined the throng.
'Now I do hope,' said the Duchess, 'that you are all shooting by
the new code. That is, and is to be, the Gatherum Archery Code,
and I shall break my heart if anybody rebels.'
'There are only two men,' said Major Pountney very gravely, 'who
won't take the trouble to understand it.'
'Mr Lopez,' said the Duchess, pointing her finger at our friend,
'are you that rebel?'
'I fear I did suggest--' began Mr Lopez.
'I will have no suggestions,--nothing but obedience. Here are
Sir Timothy Beeswax and Mr Boffin, and Sir Orlando Drought is not
far off; and here is Mr Rattler, than whom no authority on such a
subject can be better. Ask them whether in other matters
suggestions are wanted.'
'Of course not,' said Major Pountney.
'Now, Mr Lopez, will you or will you not be guided by a strict
and close interpretation of the Gatherum Code. Because, if not,
I'm afraid we shall feel constrained to accept your resignation.'
'I won't resign and I will obey,' said Lopez.
'A good ministerial reply,' said the Duchess.
'I don't doubt but that in time you'll ascend to high office and
become a pillar of the Gatherum constitution. How does he shoot,
Miss Thrift?'
'He will shoot very well indeed, Duchess, if he goes on and
practises,' said Angelica, whose life for the past seven years
had been devoted to archery. Major Pountney retired far away
into the park, a full quarter of a mile off, and smoked a cigar
under a tree. Was it for that he had absolutely given up a month
to drawing out this code of rules, going backwards and forwards,
two or three times to the printers in his desire to carry out the
Duchess's wishes? 'Women are so d-d ungrateful!' This fellow
Lopez, had absolutely been allowed to make a good score off his
own intractable disobedience.
The Duchess's little joke about Ministers generally, and the
advantages of submission on their part to their chief, was
thought by some who heard it not to have been made in good taste.
The joke was just a joke as the Duchess would be sure to make,--
meaning very little, but still not altogether pointless. It was
levelled rather at her husband than at her husband's colleagues
who were present, and was so understood by those who really knew
her,--as did Mrs Finn and Mr Warburton, the private secretary.
But Sir Orlando and Sir Timothy and Mr Rattler, who were all
within hearing, thought that the Duchess had intended to allude
to the servile nature of their position; and Mr Boffin, who hear
it, rejoiced within himself, comforting himself with the
reflection that his withers were unwrung, and thinking with what
pleasure he might carry the anecdote into the farthest corners of
the clubs. Poor Duchess! It is pitiful to think that after such
Herculean labours she should injure the cause by one slight
unconsidered word, more, perhaps, than she had advanced in all
her energy.
During this time the Duke was at the Castle; but he showed
himself seldom to his guests,--so acting, as the reader will I
hope understand, from no sense of importance of his own personal
presence, but influenced by a conviction that a public man should
not waste his time. He breakfasted in his own room, because he
could thus eat his breakfast in ten minutes. He read all the
papers in solitude, because he was thus enabled to give his mind
to their contents. Life had always been too serious to him to be
wasted. Every afternoon he walked for the sake of exercise, and
would have accepted any companion if any companion had especially
offered himself. But he went off by some side-door, finding the
side-door to be convenient, and therefore when seen by others was
supposed to desire to remain unseen. 'I had no idea there was so
much pride about the Duke,' Mr Boffin said to his old colleague,
Sir Orlando. 'Is it pride?' asked Sir Orlando. 'It may be
shyness,' said the wise Boffin. 'The two things are so alike you
can never tell the difference. But the man who is cursed by
either should hardly be a Prime Minister.'
It was on the day after this, that Sir Orlando thought that the
moment had come in which it was his duty to say that salutary
word to the Duke, which it was clearly necessary that some
colleague should say, and which no colleague could have so good a
right to say as he was who was Leader of the House of Commons.
He understood clearly that though they were gathered together
then at Gatherum Castle for festive purposes, yet that no time
was unfit for the discussion of State matters. Does not all the
world know that when in autumn the Bismarcks of the world, or
they who are bigger than Bismarcks, meet at this or that
delicious haunt of salubrity, the affairs of the world are then
settled in little conclaves, with greater ease, rapidity, and
certainty than in large parliaments or the dull chambers of
public offices? Emperor meets Emperor, and King meets King, and
as they wander among rural glades in fraternal intimacy, wars are
arranged, and swelling territories are enjoyed in anticipation.
Sir Orlando hitherto had known all this, but hardly as yet
enjoyed it. He had been long in office, but these sweet
confidences can of their very nature belong only to a very few.
But now the time had manifestly come.
It was Sunday afternoon, and Sir Orlando caught the Duke in the
very act of leaving the house for his walk. There was no
archery, and many of the inmates of the Castle were asleep.
There had been a question as to the propriety of Sabbath archery,
in discussing which reference had been made to Laud's book of
sports, and the growing idea that the National Gallery should be
opened on the Lord's-day. But the Duchess would not have the
archery. 'We are just the people who shouldn't prejudge the
question,' said the Duchess. The Duchess with various ladies,
with the Pountneys and Gunners, and other obedient male
followers, had been to church. None of the Ministers had of
course been able to leave the swollen pouches which are always
sent out from London on Saturday night,--probably, we cannot but
think,--as arranged excuses for such defalcation, and had passed
their mornings comfortably dozing over new novels. The Duke,
always right in his purpose but generally wrong in his practice,
had stayed at home working all the morning, thereby scandalizing
the strict, and had gone to church in the afternoon, thereby
offending the social. The church was close to the house, and he
had gone back to change his coat and hat, and to get his stick.
But as he was stealing our of the little side-gate, Sir Orlando
was down upon him. 'If your Grace is going for a walk, and will
admit of company, I shall be delighted to attend you,' said Sir
Orlando. The Duke professed himself to be well-pleased. He
would be glad to increase his personal intimacy with his
colleague if it might be done pleasantly.
They had gone nearly a mile across the park, watching the stately
movements of the herds of deer, and talking of this and that
trifle, before Sir Orlando could bring about an opportunity for
uttering his word. At last, he did it somewhat abruptly. 'I
think upon the whole we did pretty well this Session,' he said,
standing still under an old oak-tree.
'Pretty well,' re-echoed the Duke.
'And I suppose we have not much to afraid of next Session?'
'I am afraid of nothing,' said the Duke.
'But--;' then Sir Orlando hesitated. The Duke, however, said not
a word to help him on. Sir Orlando thought that the Duke looked
more ducal than he had ever seen him look before. Sir Orlando
remembered the old Duke, and suddenly found that the uncle and
nephew were very like each other. But it does not become the
leader of the House of Commons to be afraid of anyone. 'Don't
you think,' continued Sir Orlando, 'we should try and arrange
among ourselves something of a policy? I am not quite sure that
a ministry without a distinct course of action before it can long
enjoy the confidence of the country. Take the last half century.
There have been various policies, commanding more or less of
general assent; free trade--.' Here Sir Orlando gave a kindly
wave of his hand, showing that on behalf of a companion he was
willing to place at the head of the list a policy which had not
always commanded his own assent;--'continued reform in
Parliament, to which I have, with my whole heart, given my poor
assistance.' The Duke remembered how the bathers' clothes were
stolen, and that Sir Orlando had been one of the most nimble-
fingered of thieves. 'No popery, Irish grievances, the ballot,
retrenchment, efficiency of the public service, all have had
their time.'
'Things to be done offer themselves, I suppose, because they are
in themselves desirable; not because it is desirable to have
something to do.'
'Just so;--no doubt. But still, if you will think of it, no
ministry can endure without a policy. During the latter part of
the last Session, it was understood that we had to get ourselves
in harness together, and nothing more was expected from us; but I
think we should be prepared with a distinct policy for the coming
year. I fear that nothing can be done in Ireland.'
'Mr Finn has ideas--'
'Ah, yes,--well, your Grace. Mr Finn is a very clever young man
certainly; but I don't think we can support ourselves by his plan
of Irish reform.' Sir Orlando had been a little carried away by
his own eloquence and the Duke's tameness, and had interrupted
the Duke. The Duke again looked ducal, but on this occasion Sir
Orlando did not observe his countenance. 'For myself, I think, I
am in favour of increased armaments. I have been applying my
mind to the subject, and I think I see that the people of this
country do not object to a slightly rising scale of estimates in
that direction. Of course there is the county suffrage--'
'I will think of what you have been saying,' said the Duke.
'As to the county suffrage--'
'I will think it over,' said the Duke. 'You see the oak. That
is the largest tree we have here at Gatherum; and I doubt whether
there be a larger one in this part of England.' The Duke's voice
and words were not uncourteous, but there was something in them
which hindered Sir Orlando from referring again on that occasion
to county suffrages or increased armaments.
VOLUME II
CHAPTER 21
THE DUCHESS'S NEW SWAN.
When the party had been about a week collected at Gatherum
Castle, Ferdinand Lopez had manifestly become the favourite of
the Duchess for the time, and had, at her instance, promised to
remain there for some further days. He had hardly spoken to the
Duke since he had been in the house,--but then but few of that
motley assembly did talk much with the Duke. Gunner and Pountney
had gone away,--the Captain having declared his dislike of the
upstart Portuguese to be so strong that he could not stay in the
same house with him any longer, and the Major, who was of a
stronger mind, having resolved that he would put the intruder
down. 'It is horrible to think what power money has in these
days,' said the Captain. The Captain had shaken the dust of
Gatherum altogether from his feet, but the Major had so arranged
that a bed was to be found for him in October,--for another
happy week; but he was not to return till bidden by the Duchess.
'You won't forget;--now will you, Duchess?' he said, imploring
her to remember him as he took his leave. 'I did take a deal of
trouble about the code;--didn't I?' 'They don't seem to me to
care for the code,' said the Duchess, 'but, nevertheless, 'I'll
remember.'
'Who, in the name of all that's wonderful, was that I saw you
with in the garden?' the Duchess said to her husband one
afternoon.
'It was Lady Rosina De Courcy, I suppose!'
'Heaven and earth!--what a companion for you to choose.'
'Why not?--why shouldn't I talk to Lady Rosina De Courcy?'
'I'm not jealous a bit, if you mean that I don't think Lady
Rosina will steal your heart from me. But why you should pick
her out of all the people here, when there are so many would think
their fortunes made if you would only take a turn with them, I
cannot imagine.'
'But I don't want to make anyone's fortune,' said the Duke: 'and
certainly not in that way.'
'What could you be saying to her?'
'She was talking about her family. I rather like Lady Rosina.
She is living all alone, it seems and almost in poverty. Perhaps
there is nothing so sad in the world as the female scions of a
noble but impoverished stock.'
'Nothing so dull, certainly.'
'People are not dull to me, if they are real. I pity that poor
lady. She is proud of her blood and yet not ashamed of her
poverty.'
'Whatever might come of her blood she has been all her life
willing enough to get rid of her poverty. It isn't above three
years since she was trying her best to marry that brewer at
Silverbridge. I wish you could give your time a little to some
of the other people.'
'To go and shoot arrows?'
'No;--I don't want you to shoot arrows. You might act the part
of host without shooting. Can't you walk about with anybody
except Lady Rosina De Courcy?'
'I was walking about with Sir Orlando Drought last Sunday, and I
very much prefer Lady Rosina.'
'There has been no quarrel?' asked the Duchess sharply.
'Oh dear no.'
'Of course he's an empty-headed idiot. Everybody has always
known that. And he's put above his place in the House. But it
wouldn't do to quarrel with him now.'
'I don't think I am a quarrelsome man, Cora. I don't remember at
this moment that I have ever quarrelled with anybody to your
knowledge. But I may perhaps be permitted to--'
'Snub a man, you mean. Well I wouldn't ever snub Sir Orlando
very much, if I were you; though I can understand that it might
be both pleasant and easy.'
'I wish you wouldn't put slang phrases into my mouth, Cora. If I
think that a man intrudes upon me, I am of course bound to let
know my opinion.'
'Sir Orlando has--intruded!'
'By no means. He is in a position which justifies his saying
many things to me which another might not say. But then, again,
he is a man whose opinion does not go far with me, and I have not
the knack of seeming to agree with a man while I let his words
pass idly by me.'
'That is quite true, Plantagenet.'
'And, therefore, I was uncomfortable with Sir Orlando, while I
was able to sympathize with Lady Rosina.'
'What do you think of Ferdinand Lopez?' asked the Duchess, with
studied abruptness.
'Think of Mr Lopez! I haven't thoughy of him at all. Why should
I think of him?'
'I want you to think of him. I think he's a very pleasant
fellow, and I'm sure he's a rising man.'
'You might think the latter, and perhaps feel sure of the former.'
'Very well. Then, to oblige you, I'll think the latter and feel
sure of the former. I suppose it's true that Mr Grey is going on
this mission to Persia?' Mr Grey was the Duke's intimate friend,
and was at this time member for the neighbouring borough of
Silverbridge.
'I think he will go. I've no doubt about it. He is to go after
Christmas.'
'And will give up his seat?'
The Duke did not answer her immediately. It had only just been
decided,--decided by his friend and himself,--that the seat
should be given up when the journey to Persia was undertaken. Mr
Grey, somewhat in opposition to the Duke's advice, had resolved
that he could not be in Persia and do his duty in the House of
Commons at the same time. But this resolution had only now been
made known to the Duke, and he was rather puzzled to think how
the Duchess had been able to be so quick upon him. He had,
indeed, kept the matter back from the Duchess, feeling that she
would have something to say about it, which might possibly be
unpleasant, as soon as the tidings should reach her. 'Yes,' he
said, 'I think he will give up his seat. That is his purpose,
though I think it is unnecessary.'
'Let Mr Lopez have it.'
'Mr Lopez!'
'Yes,--he is a clever man, a rising man, a man who is sure to do
well, and who will be of use to you. Just take the trouble to
talk to him. It is assistance of that kind that you want. You
Ministers go on shuffling the old cards till they are so worn out
and dirty that one can hardly tell the pips on them.'
'I am one of the dirty old cards myself,' said the Duke.
'That's nonsense, you know. A man who is at the head of affairs
as you are can't be included among the pack I am speaking of.
What you want is new blood, or new wood, or new metal, or
whatever you may choose to call it. Take my advice and try this
man. He isn't a pauper. It isn't money that he wants.'
'Cora, your geese are all swans.'
'That's not fair. I have never brought to you a goose yet. My
swans have been swans. Who was it brought you and your pet swan
of all, Mr Grey, together? I won't name any names, but it is
your swans have been geese.'
'It is not for me to return a member for Silverbridge.' When he
said this, she gave him a look which almost upset even his
gravity, a look which was almost the same as asking him whether
he would not--"tell it to the marines." 'You don't quite
understand these things, Cora,' he continued. 'The influence
which owners of property may have in boroughs is decreasing every
day, and there arises the question whether a conscientious man
will any longer use such influence.'
'I don't think you'd like to see a man from Silverbridge opposing
you in the House.'
'I may have to bear worse even than that.'
'Well;--there it is. The man is here and you have the
opportunity of knowing him. Of course I have not hinted at the
matter to him. If there were any Palliser wanted the borough I
wouldn't say a word. What more patriotic thing can a patron do
with his borough than to select a man who is unknown to him, not
related to him, a perfect stranger, merely for his worth?'
'But I do not know what may be the worth of Mr Lopez.'
'I will guarantee that,' said the Duchess. Whereupon the Duke
laughed, and then left her.
The Duchess had spoken with absolute truth when she told her
husband that she had not said a word to Mr Lopez about
Silverbridge, but it was not long before she did say a word. On
that same day she found herself alone with him in the garden,--
or so much alone as to be able to speak with him privately. He
had certainly made the best use of his time since he had been at
the Castle, having secured the good-will of many of the ladies,
and the displeasure of most of the men. 'You have never been in
Parliament, I think,' said the Duchess.
'I have never even tried to get there.'
'Perhaps you dislike the idea of that kind of life.'
'No, indeed,' he said. 'So far from it, that I regard it as the
highest kind of life there is in England. A seat in Parliament
gives a man a status in this country which it has never done
elsewhere.'
'Then why don't you try it?'
'Because I've got into another groove. I've become essentially a
City man,--one of those men who take up the trade of making
money generally.'
'And does that content you?'
'No, Duchess;--certainly not. Instead of contenting me, it
disgusts me. Not but that I like the money,--only it is so
insufficient a use of one's life. I suppose I shall try to get
into Parliament some day. Seats in Parliament don't grow like
blackberries on bushes.'
'Pretty nearly,' said the Duchess.
'Not in my part of the country. These good things seem to be
appointed to fall in the way of some men, and not of others. If
there were a general election going on to-morrow, I should not
know how to look for a seat.'
'They are to be found sometimes even without a general election.'
'Are you alluding to anything now?'
'Well;--yes, I am. But I'm very discreet, and do not like to do
more than allude. I fancy that Mr Grey, the member for
Silverbridge, is going to Persia. Mr Grey is a Member of
Parliament. Members of Parliament ought to be in London and not
in Persia. It is generally supposed that no man in England is
more prone to do what he ought to do than Mr Grey. Therefore, Mr
Grey will cease to be Member for Silverbridge. That's logic,
isn't it?'
'Has your Grace any logic equally strong to prove that I can
follow him in the borough?'
'No;--or if I have, the logic that I should use in that matter
must for the present be kept to myself.' She certainly had a
little syllogism in her head as to the Duke ruling the borough,
the Duke's wife ruling the Duke, and therefore the Duke's wife
ruling the borough; but she did not think it prudent to utter
this on the present occasion. 'I think it much better that men
in Parliament should be unmarried,' said the Duchess.
'But I am going to be married,' said he.
'Going to be married, are you?'
'I have no right to say so, because the lady's father has
rejected me.' Then he told her the whole story, and so told it
as to secure her entire sympathy. In telling it he never said
that he was a rich man, he never boasted that that search after
wealth of which he had spoken, had been successful; but he gave
her to understand that there was no objection to him at all on
the score of money. 'You may have heard of the family,' he said.
'I have heard of the Whartons of course, and know that there is a
baronet,--but I know nothing more of them. He is not a man of
large property, I think.'
'My Miss Wharton, the one I would fain call mine,--is the
daughter of a London barrister. He, I believe, is rich.'
'Then she will be an heiress.'
'I suppose so;--but that consideration has had no weight with
me. I have always regarded myself as the architect of my own
fortune, and have no wish to owe my material comfort to a wife.'
'Sheer love!' suggested the Duchess.
'Yes, I think so. It's very ridiculous, is it not?'
'And why does the rich barrister object?'
'The rich barrister, Duchess, is an out and out old Tory, who
thinks that his daughter ought to marry no one but an English
Tory. I am not exactly that.'
'A man does not hamper his daughter in these days by politics,
when she is falling in love.'
'There are other cognate reasons. He does not like a foreigner.
Now I am an Englishman, but I have a foreign name. He does not
think a name so grandly Saxon as Wharton should be changed to one
so meanly Latin as Lopez.'
'The lady does not object to the Latinity?'
'I fancy not.'
'Or to the bearer of it.'
'Ah;--there I must not boast. But in simple truth there is only
the father's ill-will between us.'
'With plenty of money on both sides?' asked the Duchess. Lopez
shrugged his shoulders. A shrug at such a time may mean
anything, but the Duchess took this shrug as signifying that that
question was so surely settled as to admit of no difficulty.
'Then,' said the Duchess, 'the old gentleman may as well give way
at once. Of course his daughter will be too many for him.' In
this way the Duchess of Omnium became the best friend of
Ferdinand Lopez.
CHAPTER 22
ST JAMES'S PARK.
Towards the end of September Everett Wharton and Ferdinand Lopez
were in town together, and as no one else was in town,--so at
least they professed to say,--they saw a good deal of each
other. Lopez, as we know, had spent a portion of the preceding
month at Gatherum Castle, and had made good use of his time, but
Everett Wharton had been less fortunate. He had been a little
cross with his father, and perhaps a little cross with all the
Whartons generally, who did not, he thought, make quite enough of
him. In the event of 'anything happening' to that ne'er-do-well
nephew, he himself would be the heir; and he reflected not
unfrequently that something very probably might happen to the
nephew. He did not often see this particular cousin, but he
always heard of him as being drunk, overwhelmed with debt and
difficulty, and altogether in that position in life in which it
is probable that something will 'happen'. There was always of
course the danger that the young man might marry and have a
child;--but in the meantime surely he, Everett Wharton, should
have been as much thought of on the banks of the Wye as Arthur
Fletcher. He had been asked down to Wharton Hall,--but he had
been asked in a way which he had no thought to be flattering and
declined to go. Then there had been a plan for joining Arthur
Fletcher in a certain shooting, but that had failed in
consequence of a few words between himself and Arthur respecting
Lopez. Arthur had wanted him to say that Lopez was an
unpardonable intruder,--but he had taken the part of Lopez, and
therefore, when the time came round, he had nothing to do with
the shooting. He had stayed in town till the middle of August,
and had then started by himself across the continent with some
keen intention of studying German politics; but he had found
perhaps that German politics do not manifest themselves in the
autumn, or that a foreign country cannot be well studied in
solitude,--and he had returned.
Late in the summer, just before his father and sister had left
town, he had had some words with the old barrister. There had
been a few bills to be paid, and Everett's allowance had been
insufficient. It often was insufficient, and then ready money
for his German tour was absolutely necessary. Mr Wharton might
probably have said less about the money had not his son
accompanied his petition by a further allusion to Parliament.
'There are some fellows at last really getting themselves
together at the Progress, and of course it will be necessary to
know who will be ready to come forward at the next general
election.'
'I think I know one who won't,' said the father, 'judging from
the manner in which he seems at present to manage his own money
affairs.' There was more severity in this than the old man had
intended, for he had often thought within his own bosom whether
it would not be well that he should encourage his son to stand
for some seat. And the money that he had now been asked to
advance had not been very much,--not more, in truth, than he
expected to be called upon to pay in addition to the modest sum
which he professed to allow his son. He was a rich man, who was
not in truth made unhappy by parting with his money. But there
had been, he thought, an impudence in the conjoint attack which
it was his duty to punish. Therefore he had given his son very
little encouragement.
'Of course, sir, if you tell me that you are not inclined to pay
anything beyond the allowance you make me, there is an end of
it.'
'I rather think that you just asked me to pay a considerable sum
beyond your allowance, and that I have consented.' Everett
argued the matter no further, but he permitted his mind to
entertain an idea that he was ill-used by his father. The time
would come when he would probably be heir not only to his
father's money, but also to the Wharton title and the Wharton
property,--when his position in the country would really be, as
he frequently told himself, quite considerable. Was it possible
that he should refrain from blaming his father for not allowing
him to obtain, early in life, that parliamentary education which
would fit him to be an ornament to the House of Commons, and a
safeguard to his country in future years?
Now he and Lopez were at the Progress together, and they were
almost the only men in the club. Lopez was quite contented with
his own present sojourn in London, he had not only been at
Gatherum Castle but he was going there again. And then he had
brilliant hopes before him,--so brilliant that they began, he
thought, to assume the shape of certainties. He had corresponded
with the Duchess, and he had gathered from her somewhat dubious
words that the Duke would probably accede to her wishes in the
matter of Silverbridge. The vacancy had not yet been declared.
Mr Grey was deterred, no doubt by certain high State purposes,
from applying for the stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds, and
thereby releasing himself from his seat in Parliament, and
enabling himself to perform, with a clear conscience, duties in a
distant part of the world which he did not feel to be compatible
with that seat. The seekers after seats were, no doubt, already
on the track; but the Duchess had thought that as far as the
Duke's good word went, it might possibly be given in favour of Mr
Lopez. The happy aspirant had taken this to be almost as good as
a promise. There were also certain pecuniary speculations on
foot, which could not be kept quiet even in September, as to
which he did not like to trust entirely to the unaided energy of
Mr Sextus Parker, or to the boasted alliance of Mr Mills
Happerton. Sextus Parker's whole heart and soul were now in the
matter, but Mr Mills Happerton, an undoubted partner in Husky and
Sons, had blown a little coldly on the affair. But in spite of
this Ferdinand Lopez was happy. Was it probable that Mr Wharton
should continue his opposition to a marriage which would make his
daughter the wife of a member of Parliament and of a special
friend of the Duchess of Omnium?
He had said a word about his own prospect in reference to the
marriage, but Everett had been at first far too full of his own
affairs to attend much to a matter which was comparatively so
trifling.
'Upon my word,' he said, 'I am beginning to feel angry with the
governor, which is a kind of thing I don't like at all.'
'I can understand that when he's angry with you, you shouldn't
like it.'
'I don't mind that half so much. He'll come round. However
unjust he may be now, at the moment, he's the last man in the
world to do an injustice in his will. I have thorough confidence
in him. But I find myself driven into hostility to him by a
conviction that he won't let me take any real step in life, till
my life has been half frittered away.'
'You're thinking of Parliament.'
'Of course I am. I don't say to you ain't an Englishman, but you
are not quite enough of an Englishman to understand what
Parliament is to us.'
'I hope to be;--some of these days,' said Lopez.
'Perhaps you may. I won't say but what you may get yourself
educated to it when you've been married a dozen years to an
English wife, and have half-a-dozen English children of your own.
But, in the meantime, look at my position. I am twenty-eight
years old.'
'I am four years your senior.'
'It does not matter a straw to you,' continued Everett. 'But a
few years are everything with me. I have a right to suppose that
I may be able to represent the county,--say in twenty years. I
shall probably then be the head of the family and a rich man.
Consider what a parliamentary education would be to me! And then
it is just the life for which I have laid myself out, and in
which I could make myself useful. You don't sympathize with me,
but you might understand me.'
'I do both. I think of going into the House myself.'
'You!'
'Yes, I do.'
'You must have changed your ideas very much then within the last
month or two.'
'I have changed my ideas. My one chief object in life is, as you
know, to marry your sister; and if I were a Member of Parliament
I think that some difficulties would be cleared away.'
'But there won't be an election for the next three years at my
rate,' said Everett Wharton, staring at his friend. 'You don't
mean to keep Emily waiting for a dissolution?'
'There are occasional vacancies,' said Lopez.
'Is there a chance of anything of that kind falling in your way?'
'I think there is. I can't quite tell you all the particulars
because other people are concerned, but I don't think it
improbable that I may be in the House before--; well, say in
three months' time.'
'In three months' time!' exclaimed Everett, whose mouth was
watering at the prospects of a friend. 'That is what comes from
going to stay with a Prime Minister, I suppose,' Lopez shrugged
his shoulders. 'Upon my word I can't understand you,' continued
the other. 'It was only the other day you were arguing in this
very room as to the absurdity of a parliamentary career,--
pitching into me, by George, like the very mischief, because I
had said something in its favour,--and now you are going in for
it yourself in some sort of mysterious way that a fellow can't
understand.' It was quite clear that Everett Wharton thought
himself ill-used by his friend's success.
'There is no mystery;--only I can't tell people's names.'
'What is the borough?'
'I cannot tell you that at present.'
'Are you sure there will be a vacancy?'
'I think I am sure,'
'And that you will be invited to stand?'
'I am not sure of that.'
'Of course anybody can stand whether invited or not.'
'If I come forward for this place I shall do so on the very best
interest. Don't mention it. I tell you because I already regard
my connection with you as being so close as to call upon me to
tell you anything of that kind.'
'And yet you do not tell me the details.'
'I tell you all that I can in honour tell.'
Everett Wharton certainly felt aggrieved by his friend's news,
and plainly showed that he did so. It was so hard that if a
stray seat in Parliament were going a-begging, it should be
thrown in the way of this man who didn't care for it, and
couldn't use it to any good purpose. Instead of in his own way!
Why should anyone want Ferdinand Lopez to be in Parliament?
Ferdinand Lopez had paid no attention to the great political
questions of the Commonwealth. He knew nothing of Labour and
Capital, of Unions, Strikes, and Lockouts. But because he was
rich, and, by being rich, had made his way among great people, he
was to have a seat in Parliament! As for the wealth, it might be
at his own command also,--if only his father could be got to see
the matter in a proper light. And as for the friendship of great
people,--Prime Ministers, Duchesses, and such like,--Everett
Wharton was quite confident that he was at any rate as well
qualified to shine among them as Ferdinand Lopez. He was of too
good a nature to be stirred to injustice against his friend by
the soreness of this feeling. He did not wish to rob his friend
of his wealth, of his Duchesses, or of his embryo seat in
Parliament. But for the moment there came upon him a doubt
whether Ferdinand was so very clever, or so peculiarly
gentlemanlike or in any way very remarkable, and almost a
conviction that he was very far from being good-looking.
They dined together, and quite late in the evening they strolled
out into St James's Park. There was nobody in London, and there
was nothing for either of them to do, and therefore they agreed
to walk round the park, dark and gloomy as they knew the park
would be. Lopez had seen and had quite understood the bitterness
of spirit by which Everett had been oppressed, and with that
peculiarly imperturbable good humour which made part of his
character bore it all, even with tenderness. He was a man, as
are many of his race, who could bear contradictions, unjust
suspicions, and social ill-treatment without a shadow of
resentment, but who, if he had a purpose, could carry it without
a shadow of a scruple. Everett Wharton had on this occasion made
himself very unpleasant, and Lopez had borne with him as an angel
would hardly have done; but should Wharton ever stand in his
friend's way, his friend would sacrifice him without compunction.
As it was Lopez bore with him, simply noting in his own mind that
Everett Wharton was a greater ass than he had taken him to be.
It was Wharton's idea that they should walk around the park, and
Lopez for a time had discouraged the suggestion. 'It is a
wretchedly dark place at night, and you don't know whom you may
meet there.'
'You don't mean to say that you are afraid to walk round St
James's Park with me because it's dark!' said Wharton.
'I certainly should be afraid by myself, but I don't know that I
am afraid with you. But what's the good?'
'It's better than sitting here doing nothing, without a soul to
speak to. I've already smoked half-a-dozen cigars, till I'm so
muddled I don't know what I'm about. It's so hot one can't walk
in the day, and this is just the time for the exercise.' Lopez
yielded, being willing to yield in almost anything at present to
the brother of Emily Wharton; and though the thing seemed to him
to be very foolish, they entered the park by St James's Palace,
and started to walk round it, turning to the right and going in
front of Buckingham Palace. As they went on Wharton still
continued his accusation against his father, and said also some
sharp things against Lopez himself, till his companion began to
think that the wine he had drunk had been as bad as the cigars.
'I can't understand your wanting to go into Parliament,' he said.
'What do you know about it?'
'If I get there, I can learn like anybody else, I suppose.'
'Half of those who go there don't learn. They are, as it were,
born to it, and they do very well to support this party or that.'
'And why shouldn't I support this party,--or that?'
'I don't suppose you know which party you would support,--except
that you'd vote for the Duke, if, as I suppose, you are to get in
under the Duke's influence. If I went into the House I should go
with a fixed and settled purpose of my own.'
'I'm not there yet,' said Lopez, willing to drop the subject.
'It will be a great expense to you, and will stand altogether in
the way of your profession. As far as Emily is concerned, I
should think my father would be dead against it.'
'Then he would be unreasonable.'
'Not at all, if he thought you would injure your professional
prospects. It is a d-d piece of folly; that's the long and the
short of it.'
This certainly was very uncivil, and it almost made Lopez angry.
But he had made up his mind that his friend was a little the
worse for the wine he had drunk, and therefore he did not resent
even this. 'Never mind politics and Parliament now,' he said,
'but let us get home. I am beginning to be sick of this. It's
so awfully dark, and whenever I do hear a step, I think somebody
is coming to rob us. Let us get on a bit.'
'What the deuce are you afraid of?' said Everett. They had then
come up the greater part of the length of the Birdcage Walk, and
the lights on Storey's Gate were just visible, but the road on
which they were then walking was very dark. The trees were black
over their heads, and not a step was heard near them. At this
time it was just midnight. Now, certainly, among the faults
which might be justly attributed to Lopez, personal cowardice
could not be reckoned. On this evening he had twice spoken of
being afraid, but the fear had simply been that which ordinary
caution indicates; and his object had been that of hindering
Wharton in the first place from coming into the park, and then of
getting him out of it as quickly as possible.
'Come along,' said Lopez.
'By George, you are in a blue funk,' said the other. 'I can hear
your teeth chattering.' Lopez, who was beginning to be angry,
walked on and said nothing. It was too absurd, he thought, for
real anger, but he kept a little in front of Wharton, intending
to show that he was displeased. 'You had better run away at
once,' said Wharton.
'Upon my word. I shall begin to think you're tipsy,' said Lopez.
'Tipsy!' said the other. 'How dare you say such a thing to me?
You never in your life say me in the least altered by anything I
had drunk.'
Lopez knew that at any rate this was untrue. 'I've seen you as
drunk as Cloe before now,' said he.
'That's a lie,' said Wharton.
'Come, Wharton,' said the other, 'do not disgrace yourself by
conduct such as that. Something has put you out, and you do not
know what you are saying. I can hardly imagine that you should
wish to insult me.'
'It was you insulted me. You said I was drunk. When you said it
you knew it was untrue.'
Lopez walked on a little way in silence, thinking over this most
absurd quarrel. Then he turned round and spoke. 'This is all
the greatest nonsense I have ever heard in the world. I'll go on
and go to bed, and to-morrow morning you'll think better of it.
But pray remember that under no circumstances should you call a
man a liar, unless on cool consideration you are determined to
quarrel with him for lying, and determined also to see the
quarrel out.'
'I am quite ready to see this quarrel out.'
'Good night,' said Lopez, starting off at a quick pace. They
were then close to the turn in the park, and Lopez went on till
he had nearly reached the park front of the new offices. As he
had walked he had listened to the footfall of his friend, and
after a while had perceived, or had thought that he perceived
that the sound was discontinued. It seemed to him that Wharton
had altogether lost his senses;--the insult to himself had been
so determined and so absolutely groundless! He had striven his
best to conquer the man's ill-humour by good-natured forbearance,
and had only suggested that Wharton was perhaps tipsy in order to
give him some excuse. But if his companion were really drunk, as
he now began to think, could it be right to leave him unprotected
in the park? The man's manner had been strange the whole
evening, but there had been no sign of the effect of wine till
after they had left the club. But Lopez had heard of men who had
been apparently sober, becoming drunk as soon as they got into the
air. It might have been so in this case, though Wharton's voice
and gait had not been those of a drunken man. At any rate, he
would turn back and look after him, and as he did turn back, he
resolved that whatever Wharton might say to him on this night he
would not notice. He was too wise to raise a further impediment
to his marriage by quarrelling with Emily's brother.
As soon as he paused he was sure that he heard footsteps behind
him which were not those of Everett Wharton. Indeed, he was sure
that he heard the footsteps of more than one person. He stood
still for a moment to listen, and then he distinctly heard a rush
and a scuffle. He ran back to the spot at which he had left his
friend, and at first thought that he perceived a mob of people in
the dusk. But as he got nearer, he saw that there were a man and
two women. Wharton was on the ground on his back, and the man
was apparently kneeling on his neck and head while the women were
rifling his pockets. Lopez, hardly knowing how he was acting,
was upon them in a moment, flying in the first place at the man,
who had jumped up to meet him as he came. He received at once a
heavy blow on his head from some weapon, which, however, his hat
so far stopped as to save him from being felled or stunned, and
then he felt another blow from behind on the ear, which he
afterwards conceived to have been given him by one of the women.
But before he could well look about him, or well know how the
whole thing had happened, the man and the two women had taken to
their legs, and Wharton was standing on his feet leaning against
the iron railings.
The whole thing had occupied a very short space of time, and yet
the effects were very grave. At the first moment Lopez looked
round and endeavoured to listen, hoping that some assistance
might be near,--some policeman, or, if not that, some wanderer
by night who might be honest enough to help him. But he could
near or see no one. In this condition of things it was not
possible for him to pursue the ruffians, as he could not leave
his friend leaning against the park rails. It was at once
manifest to him that Wharton had been much hurt, or at any rate
incapacitated for immediate exertion, by the blows he had
received;--and as he put his hand up to his own head, from which
in the scuffle his hat had fallen, he was not certain that he was
not severely hurt himself. Lopez could see that Wharton was very
pale, that his cravat had been almost wrenched from his neck by
pressure, that his waistcoat was torn open and the front of his
shirt soiled,--and he could see also that a fragment of the
watch-chain was hanging loose, showing that the watch had gone.
'Are you hurt much?' he said, coming close up and taking a tender
hold of his friend's arm. Wharton smiled and shook his head, but
spoke not a word. He was in truth more shaken, stunned, and
bewildered than actually injured. The ruffian's fist had been at
his throat, twisting his cravat, and for half a minute he had
felt that he was choked. As he had struggled while one woman
pulled at his watch and the other searched for his purse,--
struggling alas unsuccessfully,--the man had endeavoured to
quiet him by kneeling on his chest, strangling him with his own
necktie, and pressing hard on his gullet. It is a treatment
which, after a few seconds of vigorous practice, is apt to leave
the patient for a while disconcerted and unwilling to speak.
'Say a word if you can,' whispered Lopez, looking into the other
man's face with anxious eyes.
At the moment there came across Wharton's mind a remembrance that
he had behaved very badly to is friend, and some sort of vague
misty doubt whether all this evil had not befallen because of his
misconduct. But he knew at the same time the Lopez was not
responsible for the evil, and dismayed as he had been, still he
recalled enough of the nature of the struggle in which he had
been engaged, to be aware that Lopez had befriended him
gallantly. He could not even yet speak; but he saw the blood
trickling down his friend's temple and forehead, and lifting up
his hand, touched the spot with his fingers. Lopez also put his
had up, and drew it away covered with blood. 'Oh,' said he,
'that does not signify in the least. I got a knock, I know, and
I am afraid I have lost my hat, but I'm not hurt.'
'Oh, dear!' The word was uttered with a low sigh. Then there
was a pause, during which Lopez supported the sufferer. 'I
thought that it was all over with me at one moment.'
'You will be better now.'
'Oh, yes. My watch is gone!'
'I fear it is,' said Lopez.
'And my purse,' said Wharton, collecting his strength together
sufficiently to search for his treasures. 'I had eight 5-pound
notes in it.'
'Never mind your money or your watch if your bones are not
broken.'
'It's a bore all the same to lose every shilling that one has.'
Then they walked very slowly away towards the steps at the Duke
of York's column. Wharton regaining his strength as he went, but
still able to progress by leisurely. Lopez had not found his
hat, and, being covered with blood, was, as far as appearances
went, in a worse plight than the other. At the foot of the steps
they met a policeman, to whom they told their story, and who, as
a matter of course, was filled with an immediate desire to arrest
them both. To the policeman's mind it was most distressing that
a bloody faced man without a hat, with a companion almost too
weak to walk, should not be conveyed to a police-station. But
after ten minutes' parley, during which Wharton sat on the bottom
step and Lopez explained all the circumstances, he consented to
get them a cab to take their address, and then to go alone to the
station and make his report. That the thieves had got off with
their plunder was only too manifest. Lopez took the injured man
home to the house in Manchester Square, and then returned in the
same cab, hatless, to his own lodgings.
As he returned he applied his mind to think how he could turn the
events of the evening to his own use. He did not believe that
Everett Wharton was severely hurt. Indeed there might be a
question whether in the morning his own injury would not be the
most severe. But the immediate effect on the flustered and
despoiled unfortunate one had been great enough to justify Lopez
in taking strong steps if strong steps could in any way benefit
himself. Would it be best to publish this affair on the house-
tops, or to bury it in the shade, as nearly as it might be
buried? He had determined in his own mind that his friend had
been tipsy. In no other way could his conduct be understood.
And a row with a tipsy man at midnight in the park is not, at
first sight, creditable. But it could be made to have a better
appearance if told by himself, than if published from other
quarters. The old housekeeper at Manchester Square must know
something about it, and would, of course, tell what she knew, and
the loss of money and the watch must in all probability be made
known. Before he had reached his own door had had quite made up
his mind that he himself would tell the story after his own
fashion.
And he told it, before he went to bed that night. He washed the
blood from his face and head, and cut away a part of the clotted
hair, and then wrote a letter to old Mr Wharton at Wharton Hall.
And between three and four o'clock in the morning he went out and
posted his letter in the nearest pillar, so that it might go down
by the day mail and certainly preceded by other written doings.
The letter which he sent was as follows:
DEAR MR WHARTON
I regret to have to send to you an account of a rather
serious accident which has happened to Everett. I am
now writing at 3 am, having just taken him home, and it
occurred about midnight. You may be quite sure that
there is no danger, or I should have advertised you by
telegram.
There is nothing doing in town, and therefore, as the
night was fine, we, very foolishly, agreed to walk round
St James's Park late after dinner. It is a kind of thing
that nobody does;--but we did it. When we had nearly got
round I was in a hurry, whereas Everett was for
strolling slowly, and so I went before him. But I was
hardly two hundred yards in front of him before he was
attacked by three persons, a man and two women. The man
I presume came upon him from behind, but he has not
sufficiently collected his thoughts to remember exactly
what occurred. I heard the scuffle, and of course turned
back,--and was luckily in time to get up before he was
seriously hurt. I think the man would otherwise have
strangled him. I am sorry to say he lost both his watch and
his purse.
He undoubtedly been very much shaken, and altogether
'knocked out of time,' as people say. Excuse the phrase,
because I think it will best explain what I want you to
understand. The man's hand at his throat must have
stopped his breathing for some seconds. He certainly has
received no permanent injury, but I should not wonder if
he should be unwell for some days. I tell you all
exactly as it occurred, as it strikes me that you may like
to run up to town for a day just to look at him. But you
need not do so on the score of any danger. Of course he
will see a doctor to-morrow. There did not seem to be
any necessity for calling up one to-night. We did give
notice to the police as we were coming home, but I fear
the ruffians had ample time for an escape. He was too
weak and I was too fully employed with him, to think of
pursuing them at the time.
Of course he is at Manchester Square
Most faithfully yours
FERDINAND LOPEZ
He did not say a word about Emily, but he knew that Emily would
see the letter and would perceive that he had been the means of
preserving her brother; and, in regard to the old barrister
himself. Lopez thought that the old man could not but feel
grateful for his conduct. He had in truth behaved very well to
Everett. He had received a heavy blow on the head in young
Wharton's defence,--of which he was determined to make good use,
though he had thought it expedient to say nothing about the blow
in the letter. Surely it was all help. Surely the paternal mind
would be softened towards him when the father should be made to
understand how great had been the service to the son. That
Everett would make little of what had been done for him de did
not in the least fear. Everett Wharton was sometimes silly but
was never ungenerous.
In spite of his night's work Lopez was in Manchester Square
before nine the following morning, and on the side of his brow he
bore a great patch of black plaster. 'My head is very thick,' he
said laughing, when Everett asked after his wound. 'But it would
have gone badly with me if the ruffian had struck an inch lower.
I suppose my hat saved me, though I remember very little. Yes,
old fellow, I have written to your father, and I think he will
come up. It was better that it should be so.'
'There is nothing the matter with me,' said Everett.
'One didn't quite know last night whether there was or no. At
any rate his coming won't hurt you. It's always well to have
your banker near you, when your funds are low.'
Then after a pause Everett made his apology,--'I know I made a
great ass of myself last night.'
'Don't think about it.'
'I used a word I shouldn't have used, and I beg your pardon.'
'Not another word, Everett. Between you and me things can't go
wrong. We love each other too well.'
CHAPTER 23
SURRENDER.
The letter given in the previous chapter was received at Wharton
Hall late in the evening of the day on which it was written, and
was discussed among all the Whartons that night. Of course there
was no doubt as to the father's going up to town on the morrow.
The letter was just such a letter as would surely make a man run
to his son's bedside. Had the son written himself it would have
been different; but the fact that the letter had come from
another man seemed to be evidence that the poor sufferer could
not write. Perhaps the urgency with which Lopez had sent off his
dispatch, getting his account of the fray ready for the very
early day mail, though the fray had not taken place till
midnight, did not impress them sufficiently when they accepted
this as evidence of Everett's dangerous condition. At this
conference at Wharton very little was said about Lopez, but there
was a general feeling that he had behaved well. 'It was very odd
that they should have parted in the park,' said Sir Alured. 'But
very lucky that they should not have parted sooner,' said John
Fletcher. If a grain of suspicion against Lopez might have been
set afloat in their minds by Sir Alured's suggestion, it was
altogether dissipated by John Fletcher's reply;--for everybody
there knew that John Fletcher carried common sense for the two
families. Of course they all hated Ferdinand Lopez, but nothing
could be extracted from the incident, as far as its details were
yet known to them, which could be turned to his injury.
While they sat together discussing the matter in the drawing-room
Emily Wharton hardly said a word. She uttered a little shriek
when the account of the affair was first read to her, and then
listened with silent attention to what was said around her. When
there had seemed for a moment to be a doubt,--or rather a
question, for there had been no doubt,--whether her father
should go at once to London, she had spoken just a word. 'Of
course you will go, papa.' After that she said nothing till she
came to him in his own room. 'Of course I will go with you
tomorrow, papa.'
'I don't think that will be necessary.'
'Oh, yes. Think how wretched I should be.'
'I would telegraph to you immediately.'
'And I shouldn't believe the telegraph. Don't you know how it
always is? Besides we have been more than the usual time. We
were to go to town in ten days, and you would not think of
returning to fetch me. Of course I will go with you. I have
already begun to pack my things, and Jane is now at it.' Her
father, not knowing how to oppose her, yielded, and Emily before
she went to bed had made the ladies of the house aware that she
also intended to start the next morning at eight o'clock.
During the first part of the journey very little was said between
Mr Wharton and Emily. There were other persons in the carriage,
and she, though she had determined in some vague way that she
would speak some words to her father before she reached their own
house, had still wanted time to resolve what those words should
be. But before she had reached Gloucester she had made up her
mind, and going on from Gloucester she found herself for a time
alone with her father. She was sitting opposite to him, and
after conversing for a while she touched his knee with her hand.
'Papa,' she said, 'I suppose I must now have to meet Mr Lopez in
Manchester Square?'
'Why should you have to meet Mr Lopez?'
'Of course he will come there to see Everett. After what has
occurred you can hardly forbid him the house. He has saved
Everett's life.'
'I don't know that he has done anything of the kind,' said Mr
Wharton, who was vacillating between different opinions. He did
in his heart believe that the Portuguese whom he so hated had
saved his son from the thieves, and he also had almost come to
the conviction that he must give his daughter to the man,--but
at the same time he could not as yet bring himself to abandon his
opposition to the marriage.
'Perhaps you think the story is not true.'
'I don't doubt the story in the least. Of course one man sticks
to another in such an affair, and I have no doubt that Mr Lopez
behaved as any English gentleman would.'
'Any English gentleman, papa, would have to come afterwards and
see the friend he had saved. Don't you think so?'
'Oh yes,--he might call.'
'And Mr Lopez will have an additional reason for calling,--and I
know he will come. Don't you think he will come?'
'I don't want to think anything about it,' said the father.
'But I want you to think about it, papa. Papa, I know you are
not indifferent to my happiness.'
'I hope you know it.'
'I do know it. I am quite sure of it. And therefore I don't
think you ought to be afraid to talk to me about what must
concern my happiness so greatly. As far as my own self and my
own will are concerned I consider myself as given away to Mr
Lopez already. Nothing but his marrying some other woman,--or
his death,--would make me think of myself as otherwise than as
belonging to him. I am not a bit ashamed of owning my love--to
you or to him, if the opportunity were allowed me. I don't think
there should be concealment about anything so important between
people who are so dear to each other. I have told you that I
will do whatever you bid me about him. If you say that I shall
not speak to him or see him I will not speak to him or see him--
willingly. You certainly need not be afraid that I should marry
without your leave.'
'I am not in the least afraid of it.'
'But I think you should think over what you are doing. And I am
quite sure of this,--that you must tell me what I am to do in
regard to receiving Mr Lopez in Manchester Square.' Mr Wharton
listened attentively to what his daughter said to him, shaking
his head from time to time as though almost equally distracted by
her passive obedience and by her passionate protestations of
love; but he said nothing. When she had completed her
supplication he threw himself back in His seat and after a while
took his book. It may be doubted whether he read much, for the
question as to his girl's happiness was quite as near his heart
as she could wish it to be.
It was late in the afternoon before they reached Manchester
Square, and they were both happy to find that they were not
troubled by Mr Lopez at the first moment. Everett was at home
and in bed, and had not indeed as yet recovered the effect of the
man's knuckles at his windpipe; but he was well enough to assure
his father and sister that they need not have disturbed
themselves or hurried their return from Hertfordshire on his
account. 'To tell the truth,' said he, 'Ferdinand Lopez was more
hurt than I was.'
'He said nothing of being hurt himself,' said Mr Wharton.
'How was he hurt?' asked Emily in the quietest, stillest voice.
'The fact is,' said Everett, beginning to tell the whole story
after his own fashion, 'if he hadn't been at hand then, there
would have been an end of me. We had separated, you know--'
'What could make two men separate from each other in the darkness
of St James's Park?'
'Well,--to tell you the truth, we had quarrelled. I had made an
ass of myself. You need not go into that any further, except
that you should know that it was all my fault. Of course it
wasn't a real quarrel,'--when he said this Emily, who was
sitting close to his bed-head, pressed his arm under the clothes
with her hand,--'but I had said something rough, and he had gone
on just to put an end to it.'
'It was uncommonly foolish,' said the old Wharton. 'It was very
foolish going round the park at that time of night.'
'No doubt, sir,--but it was my doing. And if he had not gone
with me, I should have gone alone.' Here there was another
pressure. 'I was a little low in spirits, and wanted the walk.'
'But how is he hurt?' asked the father.
'The man who was kneeling on me and squeezing the life out of me
jumped up when he heard Lopez coming, and struck him over the
head with a bludgeon. I heard the blow, though I was pretty well
done for at the time myself. I don't think they hit me, but they
got something round my neck, and I was half strangled before I
knew what they were doing. Poor Lopez bled horribly, but he says
he is none the worse for it.' Here there was another little
pressure under the bed-clothes; for Emily felt that her brother
was pleading for her in every word that he said.
About ten on the following morning Lopez came and asked for Mr
Wharton. He was shown into the study, where he found the old
man, and at once began to give his account of the whole concern
in an easy, unconcerned manner. He had the large black patch on
the side of the head, which had been so put on as almost to
become him. But it was so conspicuous as to force a question
concerning it from Mr Wharton. 'I am afraid you got rather a
sharp knock yourself, Mr Lopez?'
'I did get a knock, certainly;--but the odd part of it is that I
knew nothing about it till I found the blood in my eyes after
they had decamped. But I lost my hat, and there is a rather long
cut just above the temple. It hasn't done me the slightest harm.
The worst of it was that they got off with Everett's watch and
money.'
'Had he much money?'
'Forty pounds!' And Lopez shook his head, thereby signifying
that forty pounds at the present moment was more than Everett
Wharton could afford to lose. Upon the whole he carried himself
very well, ingratiating himself with the father, raising no
question about the daughter, and saying as little as possible
about himself. He asked whether he could go up and see his
friend, and or course was allowed to do so. A minute before he
entered the room Emily left it. They did not see each other. At
any rate he did not see her. But there was a feeling with both
of them that the other was close,--and there was something
present to them, almost amounting to conviction, that the
accident of the park robbery would be good for them.
'He certainly did save Everett's life,' Emily said to her father
the next day.
'Whether he did or not, he did his best,' said Mr Wharton.
'When one's dearest relation is concerned,' said Emily, 'and when
his life has been saved, one feels that one has to be grateful
even if it has been an accident. I hope he knows, at any rate,
that I am grateful.'
The old man had not been a week in London before he knew that he
had absolutely lost the game. Mrs Roby came back to her house
round the corner, ostensibly with the object of assisting her
relatives in minding Everett,--a purpose for which she certainly
was not needed, but, as the matter progressed, Mr Wharton was not
without suspicion that her return had been arranged by Ferdinand
Lopez. She took upon herself, at any rate, to be loud in the
praise of the man who had saved the life of her 'darling nephew',
--and to see that others also should be loud in his praise. In a
little time all London had heard of the affair, and it had been
discussed out of London. Down at Gatherum Castle the matter had
been known,--but the telling of it had always been to the great
honour and glory of the hero. Major Pountney had almost broken
his heart over it, and Captain Gunner, writing to his friend from
the Curragh, had asserted his knowledge that it was all a 'got-
up' thing between the two men. The "Breakfast Table" and the
"Evening Pulpit" had been loud in praise of Lopez, but the
"People's Banner", under the management of Mr Quintus Slide, had
naturally thrown down much suspicion on the incident when it
became known to the Editor that Ferdinand Lopez had been
entertained by the Duke and Duchess of Omnium. 'We have always
felt some slight doubts as to the details of the affair said to
have happened about a fortnight ago, just at midnight, in St
James's Park. We should be glad to know whether the policemen
have succeeded in tracing any of the stolen property, or whether
any real attempt to trace it has been made.' This was one of the
paragraphs, and it was hinted still more plainly afterwards that
Everett Wharton, being short of money, had arranged the plan with
the view or opening his father's purse. But the general effect
was certainly serviceable to Lopez. Emily Wharton did believe
him to be a hero. Everett was beyond measure grateful to him,--
not only for having saved him from the thieves, but also for
having told nothing of his previous folly. Mrs Roby always
alluded to the matter as if, for all coming ages, every Wharton
ought to acknowledge that gratitude to a Lopez was the very first
duty of life. The old man felt the absurdity of much of this,
but still it offended him. When Lopez came he could not be rough
to the man who had done a service to his son. And then he found
himself compelled to do something. He must either take his
daughter away, or he must yield. But his power of taking his
daughter away seemed to be less than it had been. There was an
air of quiet, unmerited suffering about her, which quelled him.
And so he yielded.
It was after this fashion. Whether affected by the violence of
the attack made upon him, or from other cause, Everett had been
unwell after the affair, and had kept his room for a fortnight.
During this time Lopez came to see him daily, and daily Emily
Wharton had to take herself out of the man's way, and hide
herself from the man's sight. This she did with much tact, and
with lady-like quietness, but not without an air of martyrdom,
which cut her father to the quick. 'My dear,' he said to her one
evening, as she was preparing to leave the drawing-room on
hearing his knock, 'stop and see him if you like it.'
'Papa!'
'I don't want to make you wretched. If I could have died first,
and got out of the way, perhaps it would have been better.'
'Papa, you will kill me if you speak in that way! If there is
anything to say to him, do you say it.' And then she escaped.
Well! It was an added bitterness, but no doubt it was his duty.
If he did intend to consent to the marriage, it was certainly for
him to signify that consent to the man. It would not be
sufficient that he should get out of the way and leave his girl
to act for herself as though she had no friend in the world. The
surrender which he had made to his daughter had come from a
sudden impulse at the moment, but it could not now be withdrawn.
So he stood out on the staircase, and when Lopez came up on his
way to Everett's bedroom, he took him by the arm and led him into
the drawing-room. 'Mr Lopez,' he said, 'you know that I have not
been willing to welcome you into my house as a son-in-law. There
are reasons on my mind,--perhaps prejudices,--which are strong
against it. They are as strong now as ever. But she wishes it,
and I have the utmost reliance on her constancy.'
'So have I,' said Lopez.
'Stop a moment, if you please, sir. In such a position a
father's thought is only to his daughter's happiness and
prosperity. It is not his own that he should consider. I hear
you well spoken of in the outer world, and I do not know that I
have a right to demand of my daughter that she should tear you
from her affections, because--because you are not just such as I
would have her husband to be. You have my permission to see
her.' Then before Lopez could say a word, he left the room, and
took his hat and hurried away to his club.
As he went he was aware that he had made no terms at all;--but
then he was inclined to think that no terms could be made. There
seemed to be a general understanding that Lopez was doing well in
the world,--in a profession of the working of which Mr Wharton
himself knew absolutely nothing. He had a large fortune at his
own bestowal,--intended for his daughter,--which would have
been forthcoming at the moment and paid down on the nail, had she
married Arthur Fletcher. The very way in which the money should
be invested and tied up and made to be safe and comfortable to
the Fletcher-cum-Wharton interests generally, had been fully
settled among them. But now this other man, this stranger, this
Portuguese had entered upon the inheritance. But the stranger,
the Portuguese, must wait. Mr Wharton knew himself to be an old
man. She was his child, and he would not wrong her. But she
should have her money closely settled upon herself on his death,
--and on her children, should she then have any. It should be
done by his will. He would say nothing about money to Lopez, and
if Lopez should, as was probable, ask after his daughter's
fortune, he would answer to this effect. Thus he almost resolved
that he would give his daughter to the man without any inquiry as
to the man's means. The thing had to be done, and he would take
no further trouble about it. The comfort of his life was gone.
His home would no longer be a home to him. His daughter could
not now be his companion. The sooner that death came to him the
better, but till death should come he must console himself as
well as he could by playing whist at the Eldon. It was after
this fashion that Mr Wharton thought of the coming marriage
between his daughter and her lover.
'I have your father's consent to marry your sister,' said
Ferdinand immediately on entering Everett's room.
'I knew it must come soon,' said the invalid.
'I cannot say that it has been given in the most gracious manner,
--but it has been given very clearly. I have his express
permission to see her. Those were his last words.'
Then there was a sending of notes between the sick-room and the
sick man's sister's room. Everett wrote and Ferdinand wrote, and
Emily wrote,--short lines each of them,--a few words scrawled.
The last from Emily was as follows:--'Let him go into the
drawing-room. EW.' And so Ferdinand went down to meet his love,
--to encounter her for the first time as her recognized future
husband and engaged lover. Passionate, declared, and thorough as
was her love for this man, the familiar intercourse between them
had hitherto been very limited. There had been little,--we may
perhaps say none,--of that dalliance between them which is so
delightful to the man and so wondrous to the girl till custom
staled the edge of it. He had never sat with her arm around her
waist. He had rarely held even her hand in his for a happy
recognized pause of a few seconds. He had never kissed even her
brow. And there she was now, standing before him, all his own,
absolutely given to him, with the fullest assurance of love on
her part, and with the declared consent of her father. Even he
had been a little confused as he opened the door,--even he, as
he paused to close it behind him, had to think how he would
address her, and perhaps had thought in vain. But he had not a
moment for any thought after entering the room. Whether it was
his doing or hers he hardly knew, but she was in his arms, and
her lips were pressed to his, and his arms was tight around her
waist, holding her close to his breast. It seemed as though all
that was wanting had been understood in a moment, and as though
they had lived together and loved for the last twelve months,
with the fullest mutual confidence. And she was the first to
speak--
'Ferdinand, I am so happy! Are you happy?'
'My love, my darling!'
'You have never doubted me, I know,--since you first knew it.'
'Doubted you, my girl!'
'That I would be firm! And now papa has been good to me, and how
quickly one's sorrow is over. I am yours, my love, for ever and
ever. You knew it before, but I like to tell you. I will be
true to you in everything! Oh, my love!'
He had but little to say to her, but we know that for "lovers
lacking matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss." In such
moments silence charms, and almost any words are unsuitable
except those soft, bird-like murmurings of love which, sweet as
they are to the ear, can hardly be so written as to be sweet to
the reader.
CHAPTER 24
THE MARRIAGE.
The engagement was made in October, and the marriage took place
in the latter part of November. When Lopez pressed for an early
day,--which he did very strongly,--Emily raised no difficulties
in the way of his wishes. The father, foolishly enough, would at
first have postponed it, and made himself so unpleasant to Lopez
by his manner of doing this, that the bride was driven to take
her lover's part. As the thing was to be done, what was to be
gained by the delay? It could not be made a joy to him; nor,
looking at the matter as he looked at it, could he make a joy
even of her presence during the few intervening weeks. Lopez
proposed to take his bride into Italy for the winter months, and
to stay there at any rate through December and January, alleging
that he must be back in town by the beginning of February;--and
this was taken as a fair plea for hastening the marriage.
When the matter was settled, he went back to Gatherum Castle, as
he had arranged to do with the Duchess and managed to interest
her Grace in all his proceedings. She promised that she would
call on his bride in town, and even went so far as to send her a
costly wedding present. 'You are sure she has got money?' said
the Duchess.
'I am not sure of anything,' said Lopez,--'except this, that I
do not mean to ask a single question about it. If he says
nothing to me about money, I certainly shall say nothing to him.
My feeling is this, Duchess, that I am not marrying Miss Wharton
for her money. The money, if there be any, has had nothing to do
with it. But of course it will be a pleasure added if it be
there.' The Duchess complimented him, and told him that this was
exactly as it should be.
But there was some delay as to the seat of Silverbridge. Mr
Grey's departure for Persia had been postponed,--the Duchess
thought only for a month or six weeks. The Duke, however, was of
the opinion that Mr Grey should not vacate his seat till the day
of his going was at any rate fixed. The Duke, moreover, had not
made any promise of supporting his wife's favourite. 'Don't set
your heart upon it too much, Mr Lopez,' the Duchess had said;
'but you may be sure I will not forget you.' Then it had been
settled between them that the marriage should not be postponed,
or the promised trip to Italy abandoned, because of the probable
vacancy at Silverbridge. Should the vacancy occur during his
absence, and should the Duke consent, he could return at once.
All this occurred in the last week or two before his marriage.
There were various little incidents which did not tend to make
the happiness of Emily Wharton complete. She wrote to her cousin
Mary Wharton, and also to Lady Wharton;--and her father wrote to
Sir Alured; but the folk at Wharton Hall did not give their
adherence. Old Mrs Fletcher was still there, but John Fletcher
had gone home to Longbarns. The obduracy of the Whartons might
probably be owing to these two accidents. Mrs Fletcher declared
aloud, as soon as the tidings reached her, that she never wished
to see or hear anything more of Emily Wharton. 'She must be a
girl,' said Mrs Fletcher, 'of an ingrained vulgar taste.' Sir
Alured, whose letter from Mr Wharton had been very short, replied
as shortly to his cousin. 'Dear Abel,--We all hope that Emily
will be happy, though of course we regret the marriage.' The
father, though he had not himself written triumphantly, or even
hopefully,--as fathers are wont to write when their daughters
are given away in marriage,--was wounded by the curtness and
unkindness of the baronet's reply, and at the moment declared to
himself that he would never go to Hertfordshire any more. But on
the following day there came a worse blow than Sir Alured's
single line. Emily, not in the least doubting but that her
request would be received with the usual ready assent, had asked
Mary Wharton to be one of the bridesmaids. It must be supposed
that the answer to this was written, if not under the dictation,
at any rate under the inspiration, of Mrs Fletcher. It was as
follows:
DEAR EMILY,
Of course we all wish you to be very happy in your
marriage; but equally of course we are all disappointed.
We had taught ourselves to think you would have bound
yourself closer with us down here, instead of separating
yourself entirely from us.
Under all the circumstances mamma thinks it would not be
wise for me to go up to London as one of your
bridesmaids.
Your affectionate cousin
MARY WHARTON
This letter made poor Emily very angry for a day or two. 'It is
as unreasonable as it is ill-natured,' she said to her brother.
'What else could you expect from a stiff-necked, prejudiced set
of provincial ignoramuses?'
'What Mary says is not true. She did not think I was going to
bind myself closer with them, as she calls it. I have been quite
open with her, and have always told her that I could not be
Arthur Fletcher's wife.'
'Why on earth should you marry to please them?'
'Because they don't know Ferdinand and are determined to insult
him. It is an insult never to mention even his name. And to
refuse to come to my marriage! The world is wide and there is
room for us and them; but it makes me unhappy,--very unhappy,--
that I should have to break with them.' And then tears came into
her eyes. It was intended, no doubt, to be a complete breach,
for not a single wedding present was sent from Wharton Hall to
the bride. But from Longbarns,--from John Fletcher himself,--
there did come an elaborate coffee-pot, which, in spite of its
inutility and ugliness, was very valuable to Emily.
But there was one other of her old Hertfordshire friends who
received the tidings of her marriage without quarrelling with
her. She herself had written to her old lover.
MY DEAR ARTHUR,
There has been so much true friendship and affection
between us that I do not like that you should hear from
anyone by myself the news that I am to be married to Mr
Lopez. We are to be married on the 28th November,--this
day month.
Yours affectionately,
EMILY WHARTON
To this she received a very short reply.
DEAR EMILY,
I am as I always have been.
Yours,
A.F.
He sent her no present, nor did he say a word beyond this; but in
her anger against the Hertfordshire people she never included
Arthur Fletcher. She pored over the little note a score of
times, and wept over it, and treasured it up among her most
inmost treasures, and told herself that it was a thousand pities.
She could talk, and did talk, to Ferdinand about the Whartons,
and about old Mrs Fletcher, and described to him the arrogance
and the stiffness and the ignorance of the Hertfordshire
squirearchy generally; but she never spoke to him of Arthur
Fletcher,--except in that one narrative of her past life, in
which, girl-like, she told her lover of the one other lover who
had loved her.
But these things of course gave a certain melancholy to the
occasion which perhaps was increased by the season of the year,--
by the November fogs, and by the emptiness and general sadness of
the town. And added to this was the melancholy of old Mr Wharton
himself. After he had given his consent to the marriage he
admitted a certain amount of intimacy with his son-in-law, asking
him to dinner, and discussing with him matters of general
interest,--but never, in truth, opening his heart to him.
Indeed, how can any man open his heart to one whom he dislikes?
At best he can only pretend to open his heart, and even this Mr
Wharton would not do. And very soon after the engagement Lopez
left London and went to the Duke's place in the country. His
objects in doing this and his aspirations in regard to a seat in
Parliament were all made known to his future wife,--but he said
not a word on the subject to her father; and she, acting under
his instructions, was equally reticent. 'He will get to know me
in time,' he said to her, 'and his manner will be softened
towards me. But till that time shall come, I can hardly expect
him to take a real interest in my welfare.'
When Lopez left London not a word had been said between him and
his father-in-law as to money. Mr Wharton was content with such
silence, not wishing to make any promise as to immediate income
from himself, pretending to look at the matter as though he
should say that, as his daughter had made herself her own bed,
she must lie on it, such as it might be. And this silence
certainly suited Ferdinand Lopez at the time. To tell the truth
of him--though he was not absolutely penniless, he was altogether
propertyless. He had been speculating in money without capital,
and though he had now and again been successful, he had also now
and again failed. He had contrived that his name should be
mentioned here and there with the names of well-known wealthy
commercial men, and had for the last twelve months made up a
somewhat intimate alliance with that very sound commercial man Mr
Mills Happerton. But his dealings with Mr Sextus Parker were in
truth much more confidential than those with Mr Mills Happerton,
and at the present moment poor Sexty Parker was alternately
between triumph and despair as things this way or that.
It was not therefore surprising that Ferdinand Lopez should
volunteer no statements to the old lawyer about money, and that
he should make no inquiries. He was quite confident that Mr
Wharton had the wealth which was supposed to belong to him, and
was willing to trust his power of obtaining a fair portion of it
as soon as he should in truth be Mr Wharton's son-in-law.
Situated as he was, of course, he must run some risk. And then,
too, he had spoken of himself with a grain of truth when he had
told the Duchess that he was not marrying for money. Ferdinand
Lopez was not an honest man or a good man. He was a self-
seeking, intriguing adventurer, who did not know honesty from
dishonesty when he saw them together. But he had at any rate
this good about him, that he did love the girl whom he was about
to marry. He was willing to cheat all the world,--so that he
might succeed, and make a fortune, and become a big and rich man;
but he did not wish to cheat her. It was his ambition to carry
her up with him, and he thought how he might best teach her to
assist him in doing so,--how he might win her to help him in his
cheating, especially in regard to her own father. For to
himself, to his own thinking, that which we call cheating was not
dishonesty. To this thinking there was something bold, grand,
picturesque, and almost beautiful in the battle which such a one
as himself must wage with the world before he could make his way
up in it. He would not pick a pocket or turn a false card, or,
as he thought, forge a name. That which he did, and desired to
do, took with the name of speculation. When he persuaded poor
Sexty Parker to hazard his all, knowing well that he induced the
unfortunate man to believe what was false, and to trust what was
utterly untrustworthy, he did not himself think that he was going
beyond the limits of fair enterprise. Now, in his marriage, he
had in truth joined himself to real wealth. Could he only
command at once that which he thought ought to be his wife's
share of the lawyer's money, he did not doubt but that he could
make a rapid fortune. It would not do for him to seem to be
desirous of money a day before the time;--but, when the time
should come, would not his wife help him in his great career?
But before she could do so she must be made to understand
something of the nature of his career, and of the need of such
aid.
Of course there arose the question where they should live. But
he was ready with an immediate answer to this question. He had
been to look at a flat,--a set of rooms,--in the Belgrave
Mansions, in Pimlico, or Belgravia you ought more probably to
call it. He proposed to take them furnished till they could look
about at their leisure and get a house that should suit them.
Would she like a flat? She would have liked a cellar with him,
and so she told him. Then they went to look at the flat, and old
Mr Wharton condescended to go with them. Though his heart was
not in the business, still he thought he was bound to look after
his daughter's comfort. 'They are very handsome rooms,' said Mr
Wharton, looking round upon the rather gorgeous furniture.
'Oh, Ferdinand, are they too grand?'
'Perhaps they are a little more than we quite want just at
present,' he said. 'But I'll tell you sir, just how it happened.
A man I know wanted to let them for one year, just as they are,
and offered them to me for 450 pounds,--if I could pay the money
in advance, at the moment. And so I paid it.'
'You have taken them then?' said Mr Wharton.
'Is it all settled?' said Emily, almost with disappointment.
'I have paid the money, and I have so far taken them. But it is
by no means settled. You have only to say you don't like them,
and you shall never be asked to put your foot in them again.'
'But I do like them,' she whispered to him.
'The truth is, sir, that there is no slightest difficulty in
parting with them. So that when the chance came in my way I
thought it best to secure the thing. It had all to be done, so
to say, in an hour. My friend,--as far as he was a friend, for I
don't know much about him,--wanted the money and wanted to be
off. So here they are, and Emily can do as she likes.' Of
course the rooms were regarded from that moment as the home for
the next twelve months of Mr and Mrs Ferdinand Lopez.
And then they were married. The marriage was by no means a gay
affair, the chief management of it falling into the hands of Mrs
Dick Roby. Mrs Dick indeed provided not only the breakfast,--or
saw rather that it was provided for, for of course Mr Wharton
paid the bill,--but the four bridesmaids also, and all the
company. They were married in the church in Vere Street, then
went back to the house in Manchester Square, and within a couple
of hours were on their road to Dover. Through it all not a word
was said about money. At the last moment,--when he was free
from fear as any questions about his own affairs,--Lopez had
hoped that the old man would say something. 'You will find so
many thousand pounds at your banker's,'--or, 'You may look to me
for so many hundreds a year.' But there was not a word. The
girl had come to him without the assurance of a single shilling.
In his great endeavour to get her he had been successful. As he
thought of this in the carriage, he pressed his arm close round
her waist. If the worst were to come to the worst, he would
fight the world for her. But if this old man should be stubborn,
close-fisted, and absolutely resolved to bestow all his money
upon his son because of the marriage,--ah!--how should he be
able to bear such a wrong as that?
Half-a-dozen times during that journey to Dover, he resolved to
think nothing further about it, at any rate for a fortnight; and
yet, before he reached Dover, he had said a word to her. 'I
wonder what your father means to do about money? He never told
you?'
'Does it matter, dear?'
'Not in the least. But of course I have to talk about everything
to you;--and it is odd.'
CHAPTER 25
THE BEGINNING OF THE HONEYMOON.
On the morning of his marriage, before he went to the altar,
Lopez made one or two resolutions as to his future conduct. The
first was that he would give himself a fortnight from his
marriage day in which he would not even think of money. He had
made certain arrangements, in the course of which he had caused
Sextus Parker to stare with surprise and to sweat with dismay,
but which nevertheless were successfully concluded. Bills were
drawn to run over to February, and ready money to a moderate
extent was forthcoming, and fiscal tranquillity was insured for a
certain short period. The confidence which Sextus Parker had
once felt in his friend's own resources was somewhat on the
decline, but he still believed in his friend's skill and genius,
and, after due inquiry, he believed entirely in his friend's
father-in-law. Sextus Parker still thought that things would
come round. Ferdinand,--he always now called his friend by his
Christian name,--Ferdinand was beautifully, seraphically
confident. And Sexty, who had been in a manner magnetized by
Ferdinand, was confident too,--at certain periods of the day.
He was very confident when he had had his two or three glasses of
sherry at luncheon, and he was often delightfully confident with
his cigar and brandy-and-water at night. But there were periods
in the morning in which he would shake with fear and sweat with
dismay.
But Lopez himself, having with his friend's assistance, arranged
his affairs comfortably for a month or two, had, as a first
resolution, promised himself a fortnight's freedom from all
carking cares. His second resolution had been that at the end of
the fortnight he would commence his operations on Mr Wharton. Up
to the last moment he had hoped,--had almost expected,--that a
sum of money would have been paid to him. Even a couple of
thousand pounds for the time would have been of great use to him;
--but no tender of any kind had been made. Not a word had been
said. Things could not of course go on in that way. He was not
going to play the coward with his father-in-law. Then he
bethought himself how he would act if his father-in-law were
sternly to refuse to do anything for him, and he assured himself
that in such circumstances he would make himself very
disagreeable to his father-in-law. And then his third resolution
had reference to his wife. She must be instructed in his ways.
She must learn to look at the world in his eyes. She must be
taught the great importance of money,--not in a gripping, hard-
fisted, prosaic spirit; but that she might participate in that
feeling of his own which had in it so much that was grand, so
much that was delightful, so much that was picturesque. He would
never ask her to be parsimonious,--never even to be economical.
He would take a glory in seeing her well dressed and well
attended, with her own carriage, and her own jewels. But she
must learn that the enjoyment of these things must be built upon
a conviction that the most important pursuit in the world was the
acquiring of money. And she must be made to understand, first of
all, that she had a right to at any rate a half of her father's
fortune. He had perceived that she had much influence with her
father, and she must be taught to use this influence
unscrupulously on her husband's behalf.
We have already seen that under the pressure of his thoughts he
did break his resolution within an hour or two of his marriage.
It is easy for a man to say that he will banish care, so that he
may enjoy to the full the delights of the moment. But this is a
power which none but a savage possesses,--or perhaps an
Irishman. We have learned the lesson from the divines, the
philosophers, and the poets. Post equitem sedes atra cura. Thus
was Ferdinand Lopez mounted high on his horse,--for he had
triumphed greatly in his marriage, and really felt that the world
could give him no delight so great as to have her beside him, and
her as his own. But the inky devil sat close upon his shoulders.
Where would he be at the end of three months if Mr Wharton would
do nothing for him,--and if a certain venture in guano, to which
he had tempted Sexty Parker, should not turn out the right way?
He believed in the guano and he believed in Mr Wharton, but it is
a terrible thing to have one's whole position in the world
hanging upon either an unwilling father-in-law or a probable rise
in the value of manure. And then how would he reconcile himself
to her if both father-in-law and guano should go against him, and
how should he endure her misery?
The inky devil had forced him to ask the question even before
they had reached Dover. 'Does it matter,' she had asked. Then
for the time he had repudiated his solicitude, and had declared
that no question of money was of much consequence to him,--
thereby making his future task with her so much the more
difficult. After that he said nothing to her on the subject on
that their wedding day,--but he could not prevent himself from
thinking of it. Had he gone to the depth of ruin without a wife,
what would it have mattered? For years past he had been at the
same kind of work,--but while he was unmarried there had been a
charm in the very danger. And as a single man he had succeeded,
being sometimes utterly impecunious, but still with the capacity
of living. Now he had laden himself with a burden of which the
very intensity of his love immensely increased the weight. As
for not thinking of it, that was impossible. Of course she must
help him. Of course she must be taught how imperative it was
that she should help him at once. 'Is there anything troubles
you,' she asked, as she sat leaning against him after their
dinner in the hotel at Dover.
'What should trouble me on such a day as this?'
'If there is anything, tell it me. I do not mean to say now, at
this moment,--unless you wish it. Whatever may be your
troubles, it shall be my present happiness, as it is my first
duty, to lessen them, if I can.'
The promise was very well. It all went in the right direction.
It showed him that she was at any rate prepared to take a part in
the joint work of their life. But, nevertheless, she should be
spared for the moment. 'When there is trouble, you shall be told
everything,' he said, pressing his lips to her brow; 'but there
is nothing that need trouble you yet.' He smiled as he said
this, but there was something in the tone of his voice which told
her that there would be trouble.
When he was in Paris he received a letter from Parker, to whom he
had been obliged to entrust a running address, but from whom he
had enforced a promise that there should be no letter-writing
unless under very pressing circumstances. The circumstances had
not been pressing. The letter contained only one paragraph of
any importance, and that was due to what Lopez tried to regard as
fidgety cowardice on the part of his ally. 'Please to bear in
mind that I can't and won't arrange for the bills for 1,500
pounds due on 3rd of February.' That was the paragraph. Who had
asked him to arrange for these bills? And yet Lopez was well
aware that he intended poor Sexty should 'arrange' for them in
the event of his failure to make arrangements with Mr Wharton.
At last he was quite unable to let the fortnight pass by without
beginning the lessons which his wife had to learn. As for the
first intention as to driving his cares out of his own mind for
that time, he had long since abandoned even the attempt. It was
necessary to him that a reasonable sum of money should be
extracted from the father-in-law, at any rate before the end of
January, and a week or even a day might be of importance. They
had hurried on southwards from Paris, and before the end of the
first week had passed over the Simplon, and were at a pleasant
inn on the shores of the Como. Everything in their travels had
been as yet delightful to Emily. This man, of whom she knew in
truth so little, had certain good gifts,--gifts of intellect,
gifts of temper, gifts of voice and manner and outward
appearance,--which had hitherto satisfied her. A husband who is
also an eager lover must be delightful to a young bride. And
hitherto no lover could have been more tender than Lopez. Every
word and every act, every look and every touch, had been loving.
Had she known the world better she might have felt, perhaps, that
something was expected where so much was given. Perhaps a
rougher manner, with some little touch of marital self-assertion,
might be a safer commencement of married life,--safer to the
wife as coming from her husband. Arthur Fletcher by this time
would have asked her to bring him his slippers, taking infinite
pride in having his little behests obeyed by so sweet a servitor.
That also would have been pleasant to her had her heart in the
first instance followed his image; but now also the idolatry of
Ferdinand Lopez had been very pleasant.
But the moment for the first lesson had come. 'Your father has
not written to you since you started?' he said.
'Not a line. He has not known our address. He is never very
good at letter-writing. I did write to him from Paris, and I
scribbled a few words to Everett yesterday.'
'It is very odd that he should never have written to me.'
'Did you expect him to write?'
'To tell you the truth, I rather did. Not that I should have
dreamed of his corresponding with me had he spoken to me on a
certain subject. But as, on that subject, he never opened his
mouth to me, I almost thought he would write.'
'Do you mean about money?' she asked in a very low voice.
'Well;--yes; I do mean about money. Things hitherto have gone
so very strangely between us. Sit down, dear, till we have a
real domestic talk.'
'Tell me everything,' she said as she nestled herself close to
his side.
'You know how it was at first between him and me. He objected to
me violently,--I mean openly, to my face. But he based his
objection solely on my nationality,--nationality and blood. As
to my condition in the world, fortune, or income, he never asked
a word. That was strange.'
'I suppose he thought he knew.'
'He could not have thought he knew, dearest. But it was not for
me to force the subject upon him. You can see that.'
'I am sure whatever you did was right, Ferdinand.'
'He is indisputably a rich man,--one who might be supposed to be
able and willing to give an only daughter a considerable fortune.
Now I certainly had never thought of marrying for money.' Here
she rubbed her face upon his arm. 'I felt that it was not for me
to speak of money. If he chose to be reticent, I could be so
equally. Had he asked me, I should have told him that I had no
fortune, but was making a large though precarious income. It
would then be for him to declare what he intended to do. That
would, I think, have been preferable. As it is we are all in
doubt. In my position a knowledge of what your father intends to
do would be most valuable to me.'
'Should you not ask him?'
'I believe there has always been a perfect confidence between you
and him?'
'Certainly,--as to all our ways of living. But he never said a
word to me about money in his life.'
'And yet, my darling, money is most important.'
'Of course it is. I know that, Ferdinand.'
'Would you mind asking?' She did not answer him at once, but sat
thinking. And he also paused before he went on with his lesson.
But, in order that the lesson should be efficacious, it would be
so well that he should tell her as much as he could even at this
first lecture. 'To tell you the truth, this is quite essential
to me at present,--very much more than I had thought it would be
when we fixed the day for our marriage.' Her mind within her
recoiled at this, though she was very careful that he should not
feel any such motion in her body. 'My business is precarious.'
'What is your business, Ferdinand?' Poor girl! That she should
have been allowed to marry a man, and than have to ask him such a
question!
'It is generally commercial. I buy and sell on speculation. The
world, which is shy of new words, has not yet given it a name. I
am a good deal at present in the South American trade.' She
listened, but received no glimmering of an idea from his words.
'When we were engaged everything was as bright as roses with me.'
'Why did you not tell me this before,--so that we might have
been more prudent?'
'Such prudence would have been horrid to me. But the fact is
that I should not now have spoken to you at all, but that since
we left England I have had letters from a sort of partner of
mine. In our business things will go astray sometimes. It would
be of great service to me if I could learn what are your father's
intentions.'
'You want him to give you some money at once.'
'It would not be unusual, dear,--when there is money to be
given. But I want you specially to ask him what he himself would
propose to do. He knows already that I have taken a home for you
and paid for it, and he knows,--But it does not signify going
into that.'
'Tell me everything.'
'He is aware that there are many expenses. Of course if he were
a poor man there would not be a word about it. I can with
absolute truth declare that had he been penniless, it would have
made no difference to my suit to you. But it would possibly have
made some difference as to our after plans. He is a thorough man
of the world, and he must know all that. I am sure he must feel
that something is due to you,--and to me as your husband. But
he is odd-tempered, and, as I have not spoken to him, he chooses
to be silent to me. Now, my darling, you and I cannot afford to
wait and see who can be silent the longest.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'To write to him.'
'And ask him for money?'
'Not exactly in that way. I think you should say that we should
be glad to know what he intends to do, also saying that a certain
sum of money would at present be of use to me.'
'Would it not be better from you? I only ask, Ferdinand. I
never have even spoken to him about money, and of course he would
know that you have dictated what I said.'
'No doubt he would. It is natural that I should do so. I hope
the time may come when I may write quite freely to your
father myself, but hitherto has hardly been courteous to me. I
would rather that you should write,--if you do not mind it.
Write your own letter, and show it me. If there is anything too
much or anything too little I will tell you.'
And so the first lesson was taught. The poor young wife did not
at all like the lesson. Even within her own bosom she found no
fault with her husband. But she began to understand that the
life before her was not to be a life of roses. The first word
spoken to her in the train, before it reached Dover, had
explained something of this to her. She had felt at once that
there would be trouble about money. And now, though she did not
at all understand what might be the nature of those troubles,
though she had derived no information whatever from her husband's
hints about the South American trade, though she was ignorant as
ever of his affairs, yet she felt that the troubles would come
soon. But never for a moment did it seem to her that he had been
unjust in bringing her into troubled waters. They had loved each
other, and therefore, whatever might be the troubles, it was
right that they should marry each other. There was not a spark
of anger against her in her bosom;--but she was unhappy.
He demanded from her the writing of the letter almost immediately
after the conversation which has been given above, and of course
the letter was written,--written and recopied, for the paragraph
about money was, of course, at last of his wording. And she
could not make the remainder of the letter pleasant. The feeling
that she was making a demand for money on her father ran through
it all. But the reader need only see the passage in which
Ferdinand Lopez made his demand,--through her hand.
'Ferdinand has been speaking to me about my fortune.' It had
gone much against the grain with her to write these words, 'my
fortune'. 'But I have no fortune,' she said. He insisted
however, explaining to her that she was entitled to use these
words by her father's undoubted wealth. And so, with an aching
heart, she wrote them. 'Ferdinand has been speaking to me about
my fortune. Of course, I told him I knew nothing, and that as he
had never spoken to me about money before our marriage, I had
never asked about it. He says that it would be of great service
to him to know what are your intentions, and also that he hopes
that you may find it convenient to allow him to draw upon you for
some portion of it at present. He says that 3,000 pounds would
be of great use to him in his business.' That was the paragraph,
and the work of writing it was so distasteful to her that she
could hardly bring herself to form the letters. It seemed as
though she were seizing the advantage of the first moment of
freedom to take a violent liberty with her father.
'It is altogether his own fault, my pet,' he said to her. 'I
have the greatest respect in the world for your father, but he
has allowed himself to fall into the habit of keeping all his
affairs secret from his children; and, of course, as they go into
the world, this secrecy must in some degree be invaded. There is
precisely the same going on between him and Everett; only Everett
is a great deal rougher to him than you are likely to be. He
never will let Everett know whether he is to regard himself as a
rich man or a poor man.'
'He gives him an allowance.'
'Because he cannot help himself. To you he does not do even as
much as that, because he can help himself. I have chosen to
leave it to him and he has done nothing. But this is not quite
fair, and he must be told so. I don't think he could be told in
more dutiful language.'
Emily did not like the idea of telling her father anything which
he might not like to hear; but her husband's behests were to her
in these, her early married, days, quite imperative.
CHAPTER 26
THE END OF THE HONEYMOON.
Mrs Lopez had begged her father to address his reply to her at
Florence, where,--as she explained to him,--they expected to
find themselves within a fortnight from the date of her writing.
They had reached the lake about the end of November, when the
weather had still been fine, but they intended to pass the winter
months of December and January within the warmth of the cities.
That intervening fortnight was to her a period of painful
anticipation. She feared to see her father's handwriting, feeling
almost sure that he would be bitterly angry with her. During
that time her husband frequently spoke to her about the letter,--
about her own letter and her father's reply. It was necessary
that she should learn her lesson, and she could only do so by
having the subject of money made familiar to her ears. It was
not part of his plan to tell her anything of the means by which
he hoped to make himself a wealthy man. The less she knew of
that the better. But the fact that her father absolutely owed to
him a large amount of money as her fortune could not be made too
clear to her. He was very desirous to do this in such a manner
as not to make her think he was accusing her,--or that he would
accuse her if the money was not forthcoming. But she must learn
the fact, and must be imbued with the conviction that her husband
would be the most ill-treated of men unless the money were
forthcoming. 'I am a little nervous about it too,' said he,
alluding to the expected letter;--'not so much as to the money
itself, though that is important; but as to his conduct. If he
chooses simply to ignore us after our marriage, he will be
behaving very badly.' She had no answer to make to this. She
could not defend her father, because by doing so she would offend
her husband. And yet her whole life-long trust in her father
could not allow her to think it possible that he should behave
ill to them.
On their arrival at Florence he went at once to the post-office,
but there was at yet no letter. The fortnight, however, which
had been named had only just run itself out. They went from day
to day inspecting buildings, looking at pictures, making for
themselves a taste in marble and bronze, visiting the lovely
villages which cluster on the hills around the city,--doing
precisely in this respect as do all young married couples who
devote a part of their honeymoon to Florence;--but in all their
little journeyings and in all their work of pleasure the inky
devil sat not only behind him but behind her also. The heavy
care of life was already beginning to work furrows on her face.
She would already sit, knitting her brow, as she thought of
coming troubles. Would not her father certainly refuse? And
would not her husband then begin to be less loving and less
gracious to herself?
Every day for a week he called at the post-office when he went
out with her, and still the letter did not come. 'It can hardly
be possible,' he said at last to her, 'that he should decline to
answer his own daughter's letter.'
'Perhaps he is ill,' she replied.
'If there were anything of that kind Everett would tell us.'
'Perhaps he has gone back to Hertfordshire?'
'Of course his letter would go after him. I own it is very
singular to me that he should not write. It looks as if he were
determined to cast you off from him altogether because you have
married against his wishes.'
'Not that, Ferdinand;--do not say that!'
'Well, we shall see.'
And on the next day they did see. He went to the post-office
before breakfast, and on this day he returned with a letter in
his hand. She was sitting waiting for him with a book in her
lap, and saw the letter at once. 'Is it from papa?' she said.
He nodded his head as he handed it to her. 'Open it and read it,
Ferdinand. I have got to be so nervous about it, that I cannot
do it. It seems to be so important.'
'Yes;--it is important,' he said with a grim smile, and then he
opened the letter. She watched his face closely as he read it,
and at first she could tell nothing from it. Then, in that
moment, it first occurred to her that he had a wonderful command
of his features. All this, however, lasted but half a minute.
Then he chucked the letter, lightly, in among the tea-cups, and
coming to her took her closely in her arms and almost hurt her by
the violence of his repeated kisses.
'Has he written kindly?' she said, as soon as she could find her
breath to speak.
'By George, he's a brick after all. I own I did not think it.
My darling, how much I owe you for all the troubles I have given
you.'
'Oh Ferdinand! If he has been good to you, I shall be so happy.'
'He has been awfully good. Ha, ha, ha!' And then he began
walking about the room as he laughed in an unnatural way. 'Upon
my word it is a pity we didn't say four thousand, or five. Think
of his taking me just at my word. It's a great deal better than
I expected; that's all that I can say. And at the present moment
it is of the most importance to me.'
All this did not take above a minute or two, but during that
minute or two she had been so bewildered by his manner as almost
to fancy that the expressions of his delight had been ironical.
He had been so unlike himself as she had known him that she
almost doubted the reality of his joy. But when she took the
letter and read it, she found that his joy was true enough. The
letter was very short, and was as follows:
MY DEAR EMILY,
What you have said under your husband's instruction about
money, I find upon consideration to be fair enough. I
think he should have spoken to me before his marriage;
but then again perhaps I ought to have spoken to him. As
it is, I am willing to give him the sum he requires, and
I will pay 3,000 pounds to his account, if he would tell
me where he would require to have it lodged. Then I shall
think I have done my duty by him. What I shall do with
the remainder of any money that I may have, I do not
think he is entitled to ask.
Everett is well again, and as idle as ever. Your aunt
Roby is making a fool of herself at Harrowgate. I have
heard nothing from Hertfordshire. Everything is quiet
and lonely here.
Your affectionate father
A. WHARTON
As he had dined at the Eldon every day since his daughter had
left him, and had played on an average a dozen rubbers of whist
daily, he was not justified in complaining the loneliness of
London.
The letter seemed to Emily herself to be very cold, and had not
her husband rejoiced over it so warmly she would have considered
it to be unsatisfactory. No doubt the 3,000 pounds would be
given; but that, as far as she could understand her father's
words, was to be the whole of her fortune. She had never known
anything of her father's affairs or his intentions, but she had
certainly supposed that her fortune would be very much more than
this. She had learned in some indirect way that a large sum of
money would have gone with her hand to Arthur Fletcher, could she
have brought herself to marry that suitor favoured by her family.
And now, having learned, as she had learned, that money was of
vital importance to her husband, she was dismayed at what seemed
to her to be parental parsimony. But he was overjoyed,--so much
so that for a while he lost that restraint over himself which was
habitual to him. He ate his breakfast in a state of exultation,
and talked,--not alluding specially to this 3,000 pounds,--as
though he had the command of almost unlimited means. He ordered
a carriage and drove her out, and bought presents for her,--
things as to which they had both before decided that they should
not be bought because of the expense. 'Pray don't spend your
money for me,' she said to him. 'It's nice to have you giving me
things, but it would be nicer to me even than that to think that
I could save you expense.'
But he was not in a mood to be denied. 'You don't understand,'
he said. 'I don't want to be saved from little extravagances of
this sort. Owing to circumstances, your father's money was at
this moment of importance to me,--but he has answered to the
whip and the money is there, and the trouble is over. We can
enjoy ourselves now. Other troubles will spring up, no doubt,
before long.'
She did not quite like being told that her father 'had answered
to the whip',--but she was willing to believe that it was a
phrase common among men to which it would be prudish to make
objection. There was, also, something in her husband's elation
which was distasteful to her. Could it be that reverses of
fortune with reference to moderate sums of money, such as this
which was now coming into his hands, would always affect him in
the same way? Was it not almost unmanly, or at any rate was it
not undignified? And yet she tried to make the best of it, and
lent herself to his holiday mood as well as she was able. 'Shall
I write and thank papa?' she said that evening.
'I have been thinking of that,' he said. 'You can write if you
like, and of course you will. But I shall also write, and had
better do so a post or two before you. As he has come round I
suppose I ought to show myself civil. What he says about the
rest of his money is of course absurd. I shall ask him nothing
about it, but no doubt after a bit he will make permanent
arrangements.' Everything in the business wounded her more or
less. She now perceived that he regarded this 3,000 pounds only
as the first instalment of what he might get, and that his joy
was due simply to this temporary success. And then he called her
father absurd to her face. For a moment she thought that she
would defend her father; but she could not as yet bring herself
to question her husband's words even on such a subject as that.
He did write to Mr Wharton, but in doing so he altogether laid
aside that flighty manner which for a while had annoyed her. He
thoroughly understood that the wording of the letter might be
very important to him, and he took much trouble with it. It must
be now the great work of his life to ingratiate himself with this
old man, so that, at any rate at the old man's death, he might
possess at least half of the old man's money. He must take care
that there should be no division between his wife and her father
of such a nature as to make the father think that his son ought
to enjoy any special privilege of primogeniture or of male
inheritance. And if it could be so managed that the daughter
should before the old man's death, become his favourite child,
that also would be well. He was therefore very careful about the
letter, which was as follows:
MY DEAR MR WHARTON
I cannot let your letter to Emily pass without thanking
you myself for the very liberal response made by you to
what was of course a request from myself. Let me in the
first place assure you that had you, before our marriage,
made any inquiry about my money affairs, I would have
told you everything with accuracy; but as you did not do
so I thought that I should seem to intrude upon you, if I
introduced the subject. It is too long for a letter, but
whenever you may like to allude to it, you will find that
I will be quite open with you.
I am engaged in business which often requires the use of
considerable amount of capital. It has so happened that
ever since we were married the immediate use of sum of
money became essential to me to save me from sacrificing
a cargo of guano, which will be of greatly increased
value in three months' time, but which otherwise must
have gone for what it would now fetch. Your kindness
will see me through that difficulty.
Of course there is something precarious in such a
business as mine,--but I am endeavouring to make it less
so from day to day, and hope very shortly to bring into
that humdrum groove which best befits a married man.
Should I ask further assistance from you in doing this,
perhaps you will not refuse it if I can succeed in making
the matter clear to you. As it is I thank you sincerely
for what you have done. I will ask you to pay the 3,000
pounds you have so kindly promised to my account at
Messrs. Hunky and Sons, Lombard Street. They are not
regular bankers, but I have an account there.
We are wandering about and enjoying ourselves mightily in
the properly romantic manner. Emily sometimes seems to
think that she would like to give up business, and
London, and all subsidiary troubles, in order that she
might settle herself for life under an Italian sky. But
the idea does not generally remain with her very long.
Already she is beginning to show symptoms of home
sickness in regard to Manchester Square.
Yours always most faithfully,
FERDINAND LOPEZ
To this letter Lopez received no reply;--nor did he expect one.
Between Emily and her father a few letters passed, not very long;
nor as regarded those from Mr Wharton, were they very
interesting. In none of them, however, was there any mention of
money. But early in January, Lopez received a more pressing,--
we might almost say an agonising letter from his friend Parker.
The gist of the letter was to make Lopez understand that Parker
must at once sell certain interests in a coming cargo of guano,--
at whatever sacrifice,--unless he could be certified as that
money which must be paid in February, and which he, Parker, must
pay, should Ferdinand Lopez be at that moment be unable to meet
his bond. The answer sent to Parker shall be given to the
reader.
MY DEAR OLD AWFULLY SILLY, AND ABSURDLY, IMPATIENT FRIEND
You are always like a toad under a harrow, and that
without the slightest cause. I have money lying at
Hunky's more than double enough for those bills. Why
can't you trust a man? If you won't trust me in saying
so, you can go to Mills Happerton and ask him. But,
remember, I shall be very much annoyed if you do so,--
and that such an inquiry cannot but be injurious to me.
If, however, you won't believe me, you can go and ask. At
any rate, don't meddle with the guano. We should lose
over 4,000 pounds each of us, if you were to do so. By
George, a man should neither marry, nor leave London for
a day, if he has to do with a fellow as nervous as you
are. As it is I think I shall be back in a week or two
before my time is properly up, lest you and one or two
others should think that I have levanted altogether.
I have no hesitation in saying that more fortunes are
lost in business by trembling cowardice than by any
amount of imprudence or extravagance. My hair stands on
end when you talk of parting with guano in December
because there are bills which have to be met in February.
Pluck up your heart, man, and look around, and see what
is done by men with good courage.
Yours always
FERDINAND LOPEZ
These were the only communications between our married couple and
their friends at home with which I need trouble my readers. Nor
need I tell any further tales of their honeymoon. If the time
was not one of complete and unalloyed joy to Emily,--and we must
fear that it was not,--it is to be remembered that but very
little complete and unalloyed joy is allowed to sojourners in
that vale of tears, even though they have been but two months
married. In the first week in February they appeared in the
Belgrave mansion, and Emily Lopez took possession of her new home
with a heart as full of love for her husband as it had been when
she walked out of the church in Vere Street, though it may be
that some of her sweetest illusions had already been dispelled.
CHAPTER 27
THE DUKE'S MISERY.
We must go back for a while to Gatherum Castle and see the guests
whom the Duchess had collected there for her Christmas
festivities. The hospitality of the Duke's house had been
maintained almost throughout the autumn. Just at the end of
October they went to Matching, for what the Duchess called a
quiet month--which, however, at the Duke's urgent request,
became six weeks. But even here the house was full all the time,
though from deficiency of bedrooms the guests were very much less
numerous. But at Matching the Duchess had been uneasy and almost
cross. Mrs Finn had gone with her husband to Ireland, and she
had taught herself to fancy that she could not live without Mrs
Finn. And her husband had insisted upon having round him
politicians of his own sort, men who really preferred work to
archery, or even to hunting, and who discussed the evils of
direct taxation absolutely in the drawing-room. The Duchess was
assured that the country could not be governed by the support of
such men as these, and was very glad to get back to Gatherum,--
whither also came Phineas Finn with his wife, and St Bungay
people, and Barrington Erle, and Mr Monk, the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, with Lord and Lady Cantrip, and Lord and Lady
Drummond,--Lord Drummond being the only representative of the
other or coalesced party. And Major Pountney was there, having
been urgent with the Duchess,--and having fully explained to his
friend Captain Gunner that he had acceded to the wishes of his
hostess only on the assurance of her Grace that the house would
not be again troubled with the presence of Ferdinand Lopez. Such
assurances were common between the two friends, but were
innocent, as, of course, neither believed the other. And Lady
Rosina was again there,--with many others. The melancholy
poverty of Lady Rosina had captivated the Duke. 'She shall come
and live here, if you like,' the Duchess had said in answer to a
request from her husband on his new friend's behalf,--'I've no
doubt she will be willing.' The place was not crowded as it had
been before, but still about thirty guests sat down to dinner
daily, and Locock, Millepois, and Mrs Pritchard were all kept
hard at work. Nor was our Duchess idle. She was always making
up the party,--meaning the coalition,--doing something to
strengthen the buttresses, writing letters to little people, who,
little as they were, might become big by amalgamation. 'One
always has to be binding one's faggot,' she said to Mrs Finn,
having read her Aesop, not altogether in vain. 'Where should we
have been without you?' she had whispered to Sir Orlando Drought
when that gentleman was leaving Gatherum at the termination of
his second visit. She had particularly disliked Sir Orlando, and
was aware that her husband had been peculiarly shy of Sir Orlando
since the day on which they had walked together in the park,--
and consequently, the Duchess had whispered to him. 'Don't bind
your faggot too conspicuously,' Mrs Finn had said to her. Then
the Duchess had fallen to a seat almost exhausted by labour,
mingled with regrets, and by the doubts which from time to time
pervaded even her audacious spirit. 'I'm not a god,' she said,
'or a Pitt, or an Italian with a long name beginning with M.,
that I should be able to do these things without ever making a
mistake. And yet they must be done. And as for him,--he does
not help me in the least. He wanders about among the clouds of
the multiplication table, and thinks that a majority will drop
into his mouth because he does not shut it. Can you tie the
faggot any better?' 'I think I would leave it untied,' said Mrs
Finn. 'You would not do anything of the kind. You'd be just as
fussy as I am.' And thus the game was carried on at Gatherum
Castle from week to week.
'But you won't leave him?' This was said to Phineas Finn by his
wife a day or two before Christmas, and the question was
introduced to ask whether Phineas Finn thought of giving up his
place.
'Not if I can help it.'
'You like the work.'
'That has but little to do with the question, unfortunately. I
certainly like having something to do. I like earning money.'
'I don't know why you like that especially,' said the wife
laughing.
'I do at any rate,--and, in a certain sense, I like authority.
But in serving with the Duke I find a lack of that sympathy which
one should have with one's chief. He would never say a word to
me unless I spoke to him. And when I do speak, though he is
studiously civil,--much too courteous,--I know that he is
bored. He has nothing to say to me about the country. When he
has anything to communicate, he prefers to write a minute for
Warburton, who then writes to Morton,--and so it reaches me.'
'Doesn't it do as well?'
'It may do with me. There are reasons which bind me to him,
which will not bind other men. Men don't talk to me about it,
because they know I am bound to him through you. But I am aware
of the feeling which exists. You can't be really loyal to a king
if you never see him,--if he be always locked up in some almost
divine recess.'
'A king may make himself too common, Phineas.'
'No doubt. A king has to know where to draw the line. But the
Duke draws no intentional line at all. He is not by nature
gregarious or communicative, and is therefore hardly fitted to be
the head of a ministry.'
'It will break her heart if anything goes wrong.'
'She ought to remember that Ministries seldom live very long,'
said Phineas. 'But she'll recover even if she does break her
heart. She is too full of vitality to be much repressed by
calamity. Have you heard what is to be done about Silverbridge?'
'The Duchess wants to get it for this man, Ferdinand Lopez.'
'But it has not been promised yet.'
'The seat is not vacant,' said Mrs Finn, 'and I don't know when
it will be vacant. I think there is a hitch about it,--and I
think the Duchess is going to be made very angry.'
Throughout the autumn the Duke had been an unhappy man. While
the absolute work of the Session had lasted he had found
something to console him; but now, though he was surrounded by
private secretaries, and though dispatch boxes went and came
twice a day, though there were dozens of letters as to which he
had to give some instruction,--yet, there was in truth nothing
for him to do. It seemed to him that all the real work of
Government had been filched from him by his colleagues, and that
he was stuck up in pretended authority,--a kind of wooden Prime
Minister, from whom no real ministration was demanded. His first
real fear had been that he was himself unfit;--but now he was
uneasy, fearing that others thought him to be unfit. There was
Mr Monk with his budget, and Lord Drummond with his three or four
dozen half-rebellious colonies, and Sir Orlando Drought with the
House to lead and a ship to build, and Phineas Finn with his
scheme of municipal Home Rule for Ireland, and Lord Ramsden with
a codified Statute Book,--all full of work, all with something
special to be done. But for him,--he had to arrange who should
attend the Queen, what ribbons should be given away, and what
middle-aged young man should move the address. He sighed as he
thought of those happy days in which he used to fear that his
mind and body would both give way under the pressure of decimal
coinage.
But Phineas Finn had read the Duke's character right in saying
that he was neither gregarious nor communicative, and therefore
but little fitted to rule Englishmen. He had thought that it was
so himself, and now from day to day he was becoming more assured
of his own deficiency. He could not throw himself into cordial
relations with the Sir Orlando Droughts, or even the Mr Monks.
But, though he had never wished to be put into his present high
office, now that he was there he dreaded the sense of failure
which would follow his descent from it. It is this feeling
rather than genuine ambition, rather than the love of power or
patronage or pay, which induces men to cling to place. The
absence of real work, and the quantity of mock work, both alike
made the life wearisome to him; but he could not endure the idea
that it should be written in history that he had allowed himself
to be made a faineant Prime Minister, and than had failed even in
that. History would forget what he had done as a working
Minister in recording the feebleness of the Ministry which would
bear his name.
The one man with whom he could talk freely, and from whom he
could take advice, was now with him, here at his Castle. He was
shy at first even with the Duke of St Bungay, but that shyness he
could generally overcome, after a few words. But though he was
always sure of his old friend's sympathy and of his friend's
wisdom, yet he doubted his old friend's capacity to understand
himself. The young Duke felt the old Duke to be thicker-
skinned than himself and therefore unable to appreciate the
thorns which so sorely worried his own flesh. 'They talk to me
about a policy,' said the host. They were closeted at this time
in the Prime Minister's own sanctum, and there yet remained an
hour before they need dress for dinner.
'Who talks about a policy?'
'Sir Orlando Drought especially.' For the Duke of Omnium had
never forgotten the arrogance of that advice given in the park.
'Sir Orlando is of course entitled to speak, though I do not know
that he is likely to say anything very well worth of hearing.
What is his special policy?'
'If he had any, of course, I would hear him. It is not that he
wants any special thing to be done, but he thinks that I should
get up some special thing in order that Parliament may be
satisfied.'
'If you wanted to create a majority that might be true. Just
listen to him and have done with it.'
'I cannot go on in that way. I cannot submit to what amounts to
complaint from the gentlemen who are acting with me. Nor would
they submit long to my silence. I am beginning to feel that I
have been wrong.'
'I don't think you have been wrong at all.'
'A man is wrong if he attempts to carry a weight too great for
his strength.'
'A certain nervous sensitiveness, from which you should free
yourself as from a disease, is your only source of weakness.
Think about your business as a shoemaker thinks of his. Do your
best, and then let your customers judge for themselves. Caveat
emptor. A man should never endeavour to price himself, but
should accept the price which others put on him,--only being
careful that he should learn what that price is. Your policy
should be to keep your government together by a strong majority.
After all, the making of new laws is too often but an unfortunate
necessity laid on us by the impatience of the people. A
lengthened period of quiet and therefore good government with a
minimum of new laws would be the greatest benefit the country
could receive. When I recommended you to comply with the Queen's
behest I did so because I thought you might inaugurate such a
period more certainly than any other one man.' This old Duke was
quite content with the state of things such as he described. He
had been a Cabinet Minister for more than half his life. He
liked being a Cabinet Minister. He thought it well for the
country generally that his party should be in power,--and if not
his party in its entirety, then as much of his party as might be
possible. He did not expect to be written of as Pitt or a
Somers, but he thought that memoirs would speak of him as a
useful nobleman,--and he was contented. He was not only not
ambitious himself, but the effervescence and general turbulence
of ambition in other men was distasteful to him, and the power of
submitting to defeat without either shame or sorrow had become
perfect with him by long practice. He would have made his
brother Duke such as he was himself,--had not his brother Duke
been so lamentably thin-skinned.
'I suppose we must try it for another Session?' said the Duke of
Omnium with a lachrymose voice.
'Of course we must,--and for others after that, I both hope and
trust,' said the Duke of St Bungay, getting up. 'If I don't go
upstairs I shall be late, and then her Grace will look at me with
unforgiving eyes.'
On the following day after lunch the Prime Minister took a walk
with Lady Rosina De Courcy. He had fallen into a habit of
walking with Lady Rosina almost every day of his life, till the
people in the Castle began to believe that Lady Rosina was the
mistress of some deep policy of her own. For there were many
there who did in truth think that statecraft could never be
absent from a minister's mind, day or night. But in truth Lady
Rosina chiefly made herself agreeable to the Prime Minister by
never making the most distant allusion to public affairs. It
might be doubted whether she even knew that the man who paid her
so much honour was the Head of the British Government as well as
the Duke of Omnium. She was a tall, thin, shrivelled-up old
woman,--not very old, fifty perhaps, but looking at least ten
years more,--very melancholy, and sometimes very cross. She had
been notably religious, but that was gradually wearing off as she
advanced in years. The rigid strictness of Sabbatarian practice
requires the full energy of middle life. She had been left
entirely alone in the world, with a very small income, and not
many friends who were in any way interested in her existence.
But she knew herself to be Lady Rosina De Courcy, and felt that
the possession of that name ought to be more to her than money or
friends, or even than brothers and sisters. 'The weather is not
frightening you,' said the Duke. Snow had fallen, and the paths,
even where they had been swept, were wet and sloppy.
'Weather never frightens me, your Grace. I always have thick
boots,--I am very particular about that;--and cork soles.'
'Cork soles are admirable.'
'I think I owe my life to cork soles,' said Lady Rosina
enthusiastically. 'There is a man named Sprout in Silverbridge
who makes them. Did you Grace ever try him for boots?'
'I don't think I ever did,' said the Prime Minister.
'Then you had better. He's very good and very cheap too. Those
London tradesmen never think they can charge you enough. I find
I can wear Sprout's boots the whole winter through and then have
them resoled. I don't suppose you ever think of such things?'
'I like to keep my feet dry.'
'I have got to calculate what they cost.' They then passed Major
Pountney, who was coming and going between the stables and the
house, and who took off his hat and who saluted the host and his
companion with perhaps more flowing courtesy than was necessary.
'I never found out what that gentleman's name is yet,' said Lady
Rosina.
'Pountney. I think, I believe they call him Major Pountney.'
'Oh, Pountney! There are Pountneys in Leicestershire. Perhaps
he is one of them.'
'I don't know where he comes from,' said the Duke,--'nor, to
tell the truth where he goes to.' Lady Rosina looked up at him
with an interested air. 'He seems to be one of those idle men
who get into people's houses heaven knows why, and never do
anything.'
'I suppose you asked him?' said Lady Rosina.
'The Duchess did, I dare say.'
'How odd it must be if she were to suppose that you had asked
him.'
'The Duchess, no doubt, knows all about it.' Then there was a
little pause. 'She is obliged to have all sorts of people,' said
the Duke apologetically.
'I suppose so;--when you have so many coming and going. I am
sorry to say that my time is up to-morrow, so that I shall make
way for somebody else.'
'I hope you won't think of going, Lady Rosina,--unless you are
engaged elsewhere. We are delighted to have you.'
'The Duchess has been very kind, but--'
'The Duchess, I fear, is almost to much engaged to see as much of
her guests individually as she ought to do. To me your being
here is a great pleasure.'
'You are too good to me,--much too good. But I shall have
stayed out my time, and I think, Duke, I will go to-morrow. I am
very methodical, you know, and always act by rule. I have walked
my two miles now, and I will go in. If you do want boots with
cork soles mind you go to Sprout's. Dear me, there is that Major
Pountney again. That is four times he has been up and down that
path since we have been walking here.'
Lady Rosina went in, and the Duke turned back, thinking of his
friend and perhaps thinking of the cork soles of which she had to
be so careful and which was so important to her comfort. It
could not be that he fancied Lady Rosina to be clever, nor can we
imagine that her conversation satisfied any of those wants to
which he and all of us are subject. But nevertheless he liked
Lady Rosina, and was never bored by her. She was natural, and
she wanted nothing from him. When she talked about cork soles
she meant cork soles. And then she did not tread on any of his
numerous corns. As he walked on he determined that he would
induce his wife to persuade Lady Rosina to stay a little longer
at the Castle. In meditating upon this he made another turn in
the grounds, and again came upon Major Pountney as that gentleman
was returning from the stables. 'A very cold afternoon,' he
said, feeling it to be ungracious to pass one of his own guests
in his own grounds without a word of salutation.
'Very cold indeed, your Grace,--very cold.' The Duke had
intended to pass on, but the Major managed to stop him by
standing in the pathway. The Major did not in the least know his
man. He had heard the Duke was shy, and therefore thought that
he was timid. He had not hitherto been spoken to by the Duke,--
a condition of things which he attributed to the Duke's shyness
and timidity. But, with much thought on the subject, he had
resolved that he would have a few words with his host, and had
therefore passed backwards and forwards between the house and the
stables rather frequently. 'Very cold indeed, but yet we've had
beautiful weather. I don't know when I have enjoyed myself so
much altogether as I have at Gatherum Castle.' The Duke bowed,
and made a little but a vain effort to get on. 'A splendid
pile!' said the Major, stretching his hand gracefully towards the
building.
'It's a big house,' said the Duke.
'A noble mansion;--perhaps the noblest mansion in the three
kingdoms,' said Major Pountney. 'I have seen a great many of the
best country residences in England, but nothing that at all
equals Gatherum.' Then the Duke made a little effort at
progression, but was still stopped by the daring Major. 'By-the-
by, your Grace, if your Grace has a few minutes to spare,--just
a half a minute,--I wish you would allow me to say something.'
The Duke assumed a look of disturbance, but he bowed and walked
on, allowing the Major to walk by his side. 'I have the greatest
possible desire, my Lord Duke, to enter public life.'
'I thought you were already in the army,' said the Duke.
'So I am,--was on Sir Bartholomew Bone's staff in Canada for two
years, and have seen as much of what I call home service as any
man going. One of my chief objects is to take up the army.'
'I seems that you have taken it up.'
'I mean in Parliament, your Grace. I am very fairly off as
regards private means, and would stand all the racket of the
expense of a contest myself,--if there were one. But the
difficulty is to get a seat, and, of course, if it can be
privately managed, it is very comfortable.' The Duke looked at
him again,--this time without bowing. But the Major, who was
not observant, rushed on to his destruction. 'We all know that
Silverbridge will soon be vacant. Let me assure your Grace that
if it might be consistent with your Grace's plans in other
respects to turn your kind countenance towards me, you would find
that you have a supporter than whom none would be more staunch,
and perhaps I may say one who in the House would not be the least
useful!' That portion of the Major's speech which referred to
the Duke's kind countenance had been learned by heart, and was
thrown trippingly off the tongue with a kind of twang. The Major
perceived that he had not been at once interrupted when he began
to open the budget of political aspirations, and had allowed
himself to indulge in pleasing auguries. 'Nothing ask and
nothing have,' had been adopted as the motto of his life, and
more than once he had expressed to Captain Gunner his conviction
that,--'By George, if you've only cheek enough, there is nothing
you cannot get.' On this emergency the Major certainly was not
deficient in cheek. 'If I might be allowed to consider myself as
your Grace's candidate, I should indeed be a happy man,' said the
Major.
'I think, sir,' said the Duke, 'that your proposition is the most
unbecoming and the most impertinent that ever was addressed to
me.' The Major's mouth fell, and he stared with all his eyes as
he looked up into the Duke's face. 'Good afternoon,' said the
Duke, turning quickly round and walking away. The Major stood
for while transfixed to the place, and cold as was the weather,
was bathed in perspiration. A keen sense of having 'put his foot
in it' almost crushed him for a time. Then he assured himself
that, after all, the Duke 'could not eat him', and with that
consolatory reflection he crept back to the house and up to his
room.
To put the man down had of course been an easy task to the Duke,
but he was not satisfied with that. To the Major it seemed that
the Duke had passed on with easy indifference,--but, in truth,
he was very far from being easy. The man's insolent request had
wounded him at many points. It was grievous to him that he
should have as a guest in his own house a man whom he had been
forced to insult. It was grievous to him that he himself should
not have been held in personal respect high enough to protect him
from such an insult. It was grievous to him that he should be
openly addressed,--addressed by an absolute stranger,--as a
boroughmongering lord, who would not scruple to give away a seat
in Parliament as seats were given away in former days. And it
was specially grievous to him that all these misfortunes should
have come upon him as part of the results of his wife's manner of
exercising his hospitality. If this was to be the Prime Minister
he certainly would not be Prime Minister much longer! Had any
aspirant to political life dared so to address Lord Brock, or
Lord de Terrier, or Mr Mildmay, the old Premiers whom he
remembered? He thought not. They had managed differently. They
had been able to defend themselves from such attacks by personal
dignity. And would it have been possible that any man should
have dared so to speak to his uncle, the late Duke? He thought
not. As he shut himself up in his own room he grieved inwardly
with a deep grief. After a while he walked off to his wife's
room, still perturbed in spirit. The perturbation had indeed
increased from minute to minute. He would rather give up
politics altogether and shut himself up in absolute seclusion
than find himself subject to the insolence of any Pountney that
might address him. With his wife he found Mrs Finn. Now for
this lady personally he entertained what for him was a warm
regard. In various matters of much importance he and she had
been brought together, and she had, to his thinking, invariably
behaved well. And an intimacy had been established which had
enabled him to be at ease with her,--so that her presence was
often a comfort to him. But at the present moment he had not
wished to find anyone with his wife, and felt that she was in his
way. 'Perhaps I am disturbing you,' he said in a tone of voice
that was solemn and almost funereal.
'Not at all,' said the Duchess, who was in high spirits. 'I want
to get your promise about Silverbridge. Don't mind her. Of
course she knows everything.' To be told that anybody knew
everything was another shock to him. 'I have just got a letter
from Mr Lopez.' Could it be right that his wife should be
corresponding on such a subject with a person so little known as
this Mr Lopez? 'May I tell him that he shall have your interest
when the seat is vacant?'
'Certainly not,' said the Duke, with a scowl that was terrible
even to his wife. 'I wish to speak to you, but I wish to speak
to you alone.'
'I beg a thousand pardons,' said Mrs Finn, preparing to go.
'Don't stir, Marie,' said the Duchess, 'he is going to be cross.'
'If Mrs Finn will allow me, with every feeling of the most
perfect respect and sincerest regard, to ask her to leave me with
you for a few minutes, I shall be obliged. And if, with her
usual hearty kindness, she will pardon my abruptness--' Then he
could not go on, his emotions being too great; but he put out his
hand, and taking hers raised it to his lips and kissed it. The
moment had become too solemn for any further hesitation as to the
lady's going. The Duchess for a moment was struck dumb, and Mrs
Finn, of course, left the room.
'Who is Major Pountney?'
'Who is Major Pountney! How on earth should I know? He is--
Major Pountney. He is about everywhere.'
'Do not let him be asked into any house of mine again. But that
is a trifle.'
'Anything about Major Pountney must, I should think, be a trifle.
Have tidings come that the heavens are going to fall? Nothing
short of that could make you so solemn.'
'In the first place, Glencora, let me ask you not to speak to me
again about the seat for Silverbridge. I am not at present
prepared to argue the matter with you, but I have resolved that,
I will know nothing about the election. As soon as the seat is
vacant, if it should be vacated, I shall take care that my
determination be known in Silverbridge.'
'Why should you abandon your privileges in that way? It is sheer
weakness.'
'The interference of any peer is unconstitutional.'
'There is Braxon,' said the Duchess energetically, 'where the
Marquis of Crumber returns the member regularly, in spirt of all
their Reform bills, and Bamford and Cobblesborough;--and look at
Lord Lumley with a whole county in his pocket, not to speak of
two boroughs! What nonsense, Plantagenet! Anything is
constitutional, or anything is unconstitutional, just as you
choose to look at it.' It was clear that the Duchess had really
studied the subject carefully.
'Very well, my dear, let it be nonsense. I only beg to assure
you that it is my intention, and I request you to act
accordingly. And there is another thing I have to say to you. I
shall be sorry to interfere in any way with the pleasure which
you may derive from society, but as long as I am burdened with
the office which has been imposed upon me, I will not again
entertain any guests in my own house.'
'Plantagenet!'
'You cannot turn the people out who are here now; but I beg that
they may be allowed to go when the time comes, and that their
place may not be filled by further invitations.'
'But further invitations have gone out ever so long ago, and have
been accepted. You must be ill, dear.'
'Ill at ease,--yes. At any rate let none others be sent out.'
Then he remembered a kindly purpose, which he had formed early in
the day, and fell back on that. 'I should, however, be glad if
you would ask Lady Rosina De Courcy to remain here.' The Duchess
stared at him, really thinking now that something was amiss with
him. 'The whole thing is a failure and I will have no more of
it. It is degrading me.' Then without allowing her a moment in
which to answer him, he marched back to his own room.
But even here his spirit was not as yet at rest. That Major must
not go unpunished. Though he hated all fuss and noise he must do
something. So he wrote as follows to the Major:
The Duke of Omnium trusts that Major Pountney will not
find it inconvenient to leave Gatherum Castle shortly.
Should Major Pountney wish to remain at the Castle over
the night, the Duke of Omnium hopes that he will not
object to be served with his dinner and with his
breakfast in his own room. A carriage with horses will
be ready for Major Pountney's use, to take him to
Silverbridge, as soon as Major Pountney may express to
the servants his wish to that effect.
Gatherum Castle,--December, 18--
This note the Duke sent by the hands of his own servant, having
said enough to the man as to the carriage and the possible dinner
in the Major's bedroom, to make the man understand almost exactly
what had occurred. A note from the Major was brought to the Duke
while he was dressing. The Duke having glanced at the note threw
it into the fire; and the Major that evening ate his dinner at
the Palliser's Arms Inn at Silverbridge.
CHAPTER 28
THE DUCHESS'S MIND IS TROUBLED.
It is hardly possible that one man should turn another out of his
house without any people knowing it, and when the one person is a
Prime Minister and the other such as Major Pountney, the affair
is likely to be talked about very widely. The Duke of course
never opened his mouth on the subject, except in answer to
questions from the Duchess; but all the servants knew it.
'Pritchard tells me you have sent that wretched man out of the
house with a flea in his ear,' said the Duchess.
'I sent him out of the house, certainly.'
'He was hardly worth your anger.'
'He is not at all worth my anger;--but I could not sit down to
dinner with a man who insulted me.'
'What did he say, Plantagenet? I know it was something about
Silverbridge.' To this question the Duke gave no answer, but in
respect to Silverbridge he was stern as adamant. Two days after
the departure of the Major it was known in Silverbridge generally
that in the event of there being an election the Duke's agent
would not as usual suggest a nominee. There was a paragraph on
the subject in the County paper, and another in the London
"Evening Pulpit". The Duke of Omnium,--that he might show his
respect to the law, not only as to the letter of the law, but as
to the spirit also,--had made it known to his tenantry in and
round Silverbridge generally that he would in no way influence
their choice of candidate in the event of an election. But these
newspapers did not say a word about Major Pountney.
The clubs of course knew all about it, and no man at any club
ever knew more than Captain Gunner. Soon after Christmas he met
his friend the Major on the steps of the new military club, The
Active Service, which was declared by many men in the army to
have left all the other military clubs 'absolutely nowhere'.
'Halloa, Punt!' he said, 'you seem to have made a mess of it at
last down at the Duchess's.'
'I wonder what you know about it.'
'You had to come away pretty quick, I take it.'
'Of course I came away pretty quick.' So much as that the Major
was aware must be known. There were details which he could deny
safely, as it would be impossible that they should be supported
by evidence, but there were matters which must be admitted.
'I'll bet a fiver that beyond that you know nothing about it.'
'The Duke ordered you off, I take it.'
'After a fashion he did. There are circumstances in which a man
cannot help himself.' This was diplomatical because it left the
Captain to suppose that the Duke was the man who could not help
himself.
'Of course I was not there,' said Gunner, 'and I can't absolutely
know, but I suppose you had been interfering with the Duchess
about Silverbridge. Glencora will bear a great deal,--but since
she has taken up politics, by George, you had better not touch
her there.' At last it came to be believed that the Major had
been turned out by the order of the Duchess because he had
ventured to put himself forward as an opponent to Ferdinand
Lopez, and the Major felt himself really grateful to his friend
the Captain for this arrangement of the story. And there came at
last to be mixed up with the story some half-understood innuendo
that the Major's jealousy against Lopez had been of a double
nature,--in reference both to the Duchess and the borough,--so
that he escaped from much of that disgrace which naturally
attracts itself to a man who has been kicked out of another man's
house. There was a mystery;--and when there is a mystery a man
should never be condemned. Where there is a woman in the case a
man cannot be expected to tell the truth. As for calling out or
in any punishing the Prime Minister, that of course was out of
the question. And so it went on till at last the Major was
almost proud of what he had done, and talked about it willingly
with mysterious hints, in which practice made him perfect.
But with the Duchess the affair was very serious, so much so that
she was driven to call in for advice,--not only from her
constant friend, Mrs Finn, but afterwards from Barrington Erle,
from Phineas Finn, and lastly even from the Duke of St Bungay, to
whom she was hardly willing to subject herself, the Duke being
the special friend of her husband. But the matter became so
important to her that she was unable to trifle with it. At
Gatherum the expulsion of Major Pountney soon became a forgotten
affair. When the Duchess learned the truth she quite approved of
the expulsion, only hinting to Barrington Erle that the act of
kicking out should have been more absolutely practical. And the
loss of Silverbridge, though it hurt her sorely, could be
endured. She must write to her friend Ferdinand Lopez, when the
time should come, excusing herself as best she might, and must
lose the exquisite delight of making a Member of Parliament out
of her own hand. The newspapers, however, had taken that matter
up in the proper spirit, and political capital might to some
extent be made of it. The loss of Silverbridge, though it
bruised, broke no bones. But the Duke again expressed himself
with unusual sternness respecting her ducal hospitalities, and
had reiterated the declaration of his intention to live out the
remainder of his period of office in republican simplicity. 'We
have tried it and it has failed, and let there be an end of it,'
he said to her. Simple and direct disobedience to such an order
was as little in her way as simple or direct obedience. She knew
her husband well, and knew how he could be managed and how he
could not be managed. When he declared that there should be 'an
end of it',--meaning an end of the very system by which she
hoped to perpetuate his power,--she did not dare argue with him.
And yet he was so wrong! The trial had been no failure. The
thing had been done and well done, and had succeeded. Was
failure to be presumed because one impertinent puppy had found
his way into the house? And then to abandon the system at once,
whether it had failed or whether it had succeeded, would be to
call the attention of all the world to an acknowledged failure,--
to a failure so disreputable that its acknowledgement must lead
to the loss of everything! It was known now,--so argued the
Duchess to herself,--that she had devoted herself to the work of
cementing and consolidating the Coalition by the graceful
hospitality which the wealth of herself and her husband enabled
her to dispense. She had made herself a Prime Ministress by the
manner in which she opened her saloons, her banqueting halls, and
her gardens. It had never been done before, and now it had been
well done. There had been no failure. And yet everything was to
be broken down because his nerves had received a shock!
'Let it die out,' Mrs Finn had said. 'The people will come here
and will go away, and then, when you are up in London, you will
soon fall into your old ways.' But this did not suit the new
ambition of the Duchess. She had so fed her mind with daring
hopes that she could not bear that it 'should die out'. She had
arranged a course of things in her own mind by which she should
come to be known as the great Prime Minister's wife, and she had,
perhaps unconsciously, applied the epithet more to herself than
to her husband. She, too, wished to be written of in memoirs,
and to make a niche for herself in history. And now she was told
that she was to let it 'die out'.
'I suppose he is a little bilious,' Barrington Erle had said.
'Don't you think he'll forget about it when he gets up to
London?' The Duchess was sure that her husband would not forget
anything. He never did forget anything. 'I want him to be
told,' said the Duchess, 'that everybody thinks he is doing very
well. I don't mean about politics exactly, but as to keeping the
party together. Don't you think that we have succeeded?'
Barrington Erle thought upon the whole they had succeeded; but
suggested at the same time that there were seeds of weakness.
'Sir Orlando and Sir Timothy Beeswax are not sound, you know,'
said Barrington Erle. 'He can't make them sounder by shutting
himself up like a hermit,' said the Duchess. Barrington Erle,
who had peculiar privileges of his own, promised that if he could
by any means make an occasion, he would let the Duke know that
their side of the Coalition was more than contented with the way
in which he did his work.
'You don't think we've made a mess of it?' said the Duchess to
Phineas, asking him a question. 'I don't think that the Duke has
made a mess of it,--or you,' said Phineas, who had come to love
the Duchess because his wife loved her. 'But it won't go on for
ever, Duchess.' 'You know what I have done,' said the Duchess,
who took it for granted that Mr Finn knew all that his wife knew.
'Has it answered?' Phineas was silent for a moment. 'Of course
you will tell me the truth. You won't be so bad as to flatter me
now that I am much in earnest.' 'I almost think,' said Phineas,
'that the time has gone by for what one may call drawing-room
influences. They used to be very great. Old Lord Brock used
them extensively, though by no means as your Grace has done. But
the spirit of the world has changed since then.' 'The spirit of
the world never changes,' said the Duchess in her soreness.
But her strongest dependence was on the old Duke. The party of
the Castle was almost broken up when she consulted him. She had
been so far true to her husband as not to ask another guest to
the house since his command;--but they who had been asked before
came and went as had been arranged. Then, when the place was
nearly empty, and when Locock and Millepois and Pritchard were
wondering among themselves at this general collapse, she asked
her husband's leave to invite their old friend again for a day or
two. 'I do so want to see him, and I think he'll come,' said the
Duchess. The Duke gave his permission with a ready smile,--not
because the proposed visitor was his own confidential friend, but
because it suited his spirit to grant such a request as to anyone
after the order that he had given. Had she named Major Pountney,
I think he would have smiled and acceded.
The Duke came, and to him she poured out her whole soul. 'It has
been for him and for his honour that I have done it;--that men
and women might know how really gracious he is, and how good. Of
course, there has been money spent, but he can afford it without
hurting the children. It has been so necessary that with a
Coalition people should know each other! There was some absurd
little row here. A man who was a mere nobody, one of the
travelling butterfly men that fill up spaces and talk to girls,
got hold of him and was impertinent. He is so thin-skinned that
he could not shake the creature into the dust as you would have
done. It annoyed him,--that, and I think, seeing so many
strange faces,--so that he came to me and declared that as long
as he remained in office he would not have another person in the
house, either here or in London. He meant it literally, and he
meant me to understand it literally. I had to get special leave
before I could ask so dear an old friend as your Grace.'
'I don't think he would object to me,' said the Duke, laughing.
'Of course not. He was only too glad to think you would come.
But he took the request as being quite the proper thing. It will
kill me if this is to be carried out. After all that I have
done, I could show myself nowhere. And it will be so injurious
to him! Could you not tell him, Duke? No one else in the world
can tell him but you. Nothing unfair has been attempted. No job
has been done. I have endeavoured to make his house pleasant to
people, in order that they might look upon him with grace and
favour. Is that wrong? Is that unbecoming in a wife?'
The old Duke patted her on the head as though she were a little
girl, and was more comforting to her than her other counsellors.
He would say nothing to her husband now;--but they must both be
up in London at the meeting of Parliament, and then he would tell
his friend that, in his opinion, no sudden change should be made.
'This husband of yours is a very peculiar man,' he said smiling.
'His honesty is not like the honesty of other men. It is more
downright;--more absolutely honest; less capable of bearing even
the shadow which the stain from another's dishonesty might throw
upon it. Give him credit for all that, and remember that you
cannot find everything combined in the same person. He is very
practical in some things, but the question is whether he is not
too scrupulous to be practical in all things.' At the close of
the interview the Duchess kissed him and promised to be guided by
him. The occurrences of the last few weeks had softened the
Duchess much.
CHAPTER 29
THE TWO CANDIDATES FOR SILVERBRIDGE.
On his arrival in London Ferdinand Lopez found a letter waiting
for him from the Duchess. This came into his hand immediately on
his reaching the rooms at Belgrave Mansions and was of course the
first object of his care. 'That contains my fate,' he said to
his wife, putting his hand down upon the letter. He had talked
to her much of the chance that had come in his way, and had shown
himself to be very ambitious of the honour offered to him. She
of course had sympathized with him, and was willing to think all
good things both of the Duchess and the Duke, if they would
between them put her husband into Parliament. He paused a moment
still holding the letter under his hand. 'You would hardly think
that I should be such a coward that I don't like to open it,' he
said.
'You've got to do it.'
'Unless I make you do it for me,' he said, holding out the letter
to her. 'You will have to learn how weak I am. When I am really
anxious I become like a child.'
'I do not think you are ever weak,' she said, caressing him. 'If
there were a thing to be done you would do it at once. But I'll
open it if you like.' Then he tore off the envelope with an air
of comic importance, and stood for a few minutes while he read
it.
'What I first perceive is that there has been a row about it,' he
said.
'A row about it! What sort of row?'
'My dear friend the Duchess has not quite hit it off with my less
dear friend the Duke.'
'She does not say so?'
Oh dear no! My friend the Duchess is much too discreet for that;
--but I can see that it has been so.'
'Are you to be the new member? If that is arranged I don't care
a bit about the Duke and Duchess.'
'These things do not settle themselves quite so easily as that.
I am not to have the seat at any rate without fighting for it.
There's the letter.'
The Duchess's letter to her new adherent shall be given, but it
must first be understood that many different ideas had passed
through the writer's mind between the writing of the letter and
the order given by the Prime Minister to his wife concerning the
borough. She of course became aware at once that Mr Lopez must
be informed that she could not do for him what she had suggested
that she would do. But there was no necessity of writing at the
instant. Mr Grey had not yet vacated the seat, and Mr Lopez was
away on his travels. The month of January was passed in
comparative quiet at the Castle, and during that time it became
known at Silverbridge that the election would be open. The Duke
would not even make a suggestion, and would neither express, nor
feel, resentment should a member be returned altogether hostile
to his Ministry. By degrees the Duchess accustomed herself to
this condition of affairs, and as the consternation caused by her
husband's very imperious conduct wore off, she began to ask
herself whether even yet she need not quite give up the game.
She could not make a Member of Parliament altogether out of her
own hand, as she had once fondly hoped she might do; but still
she might do something. She would in nothing disobey her
husband, but if Mr Lopez were to stand for Silverbridge, it could
not but be known in the borough that Mr Lopez was her friend.
Therefore she wrote the following letter:
Gatherum,--January, 18--
MY DEAR MR LOPEZ,
I remember that you said that you would be at home at
this time, and therefore I write to you about the
borough. Things are changed since you went away, and I
fear, not changed for your advantage.
We understand that Mr Grey will apply for the Chiltern
Hundreds at the end of March, and that the election will
take place in April. No candidates will appear as
favoured from hence. We need to run a favourite, and our
favourite would sometimes win,--would sometimes even
have a walk over, but good times are gone. All the good
times are going, I think. There is no reason that I know
why you should not stand as well as anyone else. You can
be early in the field;--because it is only now known
that there will be no Gatherum interest. And I fancy it
has already leaked out that you would have been the
favourite had there been a favourite;--which might be
beneficial.
I need hardly say that I do not wish my name to be
mentioned in the matter.
Sincerely yours,
GLENCORA OMNIUM
Sprugeon, the ironmonger, would I do not doubt, be proud
to nominate you.
'I don't understand much about it,' said Emily.
'I dare say not. It is not meant that any novice should
understand much about it. Of course you will not mention her
Grace's letter.'
'Certainly not.'
'She intends to do the very best she can for me. I have no doubt
that some understrapper from the Castle has had some
communication with Mr Sprugeon. The fact is that the Duke won't
be seen in it, but that the Duchess does not mean that the
borough shall quite slip through their fingers.'
'Shall you try it?'
'If I do I must send an agent down to see Mr Sprugeon on the sly,
and the sooner I do the better. I wonder what your father will
say about it.'
'He is an old Conservative.'
'But would he not like his son-in-law to be in Parliament?'
'I don't know that he would care about it very much. He seems
always to laugh at people who want to get into Parliament. But
if you have set your heart upon it, Ferdinand--'
'I have not set my heart on spending a great deal of money. When
I first thought of Silverbridge the expense would have been
almost nothing. It would have been a walk over, as the Duchess
calls it. But now there will certainly be a contest.'
'Give it up if you cannot afford it.'
'Nothing venture nothing have. You don't think your father would
help me doing it? It would add almost as much to your position
as to mine.' Emily shook her head. She had always heard her
father ridicule the folly of men who spent more than they could
afford in the vanity of writing two letters after their name, and
she now explained that it had always been so with him. 'You
would not mind asking him,' he said.
'I will ask him if you wish it, certainly.' Ever since their
marriage he had been teaching her,--intentionally teaching her,
--that it would be the duty of both of them to get all they could
from her father. She had learned the lesson, but it had been
very distasteful to her. It had not induced her to think ill of
her husband. She was too much engrossed with him, too much in
love with him for that. But she was beginning to feel that the
world in general was hard and greedy and uncomfortable. If it
was proper that a father should give his daughter money when she
was married, why did not her father do so without being asked?
And yet, if he were unwilling to do so, would it not be better to
leave him to his pleasure in the matter? But now she began to
perceive that her father was to be regarded as a milch cow, and
that she was to be the dairy-maid. Her husband at times would
become terribly anxious on the subject. On receiving the promise
of 3,000 pounds he had been elated, but since that he had
continually talked of what more her father ought to do for them.
'Perhaps I had better take the bull by the horns,' he said, 'and
do it myself. Then I shall find out whether he really has our
interest at heart, or whether he looks on you as a stranger
because you've gone away from him.'
'I don't think he will look upon me as a stranger.'
'We'll see,' said Lopez.
It was not long before he made the experiment. He had called
himself a coward as to the opening of the Duchess's letter, but
he had in truth always courage for perils of this nature. On
the day of their arrival they dined with Mr Wharton in Manchester
Square, and certainly the old man had received his daughter with
great delight. He had been courteous to Lopez, and Emily, amidst
the pleasure of his welcome, had forgotten some of her troubles.
The three were alone together, and when Emily had asked after her
brother, Mr Wharton had laughed and said that Everett was an ass.
'You have quarrelled with him?' she said. He ridiculed the idea
of any quarrel, but again said Everett was an ass.
After dinner Mr Wharton and Lopez were left together, as the old
man, whether alone or in company, always sat for half an hour
sipping port wine after the manner of his forefathers. Lopez had
already determined that he would not let the opportunity escape
him, and began his attack at once. 'I have been invited, sir,'
he said with his sweetest smile, 'to stand for Silverbridge.'
'You too?' said Mr Wharton. But though there was a certain
amount of satire in the exclamation, it had been good-humoured
satire.
'Yes sir. We all get bit sooner or later, I suppose.'
'I never was bit.'
'Your sagacity and philosophy have been the wonder of the world,
sir. There can be no doubt that in my profession a seat in the
House would be of the greatest possible advantage to me. It
enables a man to do a great many things which he could not touch
without it.'
'It may be so. I don't know anything about it.'
'And then it is a great honour.'
'That depends on how you get it, and how you use it,--very much
also on whether you are fit for it.'
'I shall get it honestly if I do get it. I hope I may use it
well. And as for my fitness, I must leave that to be ascertained
when I am there. I am sorry to say there will probably be a
contest.'
'I suppose so. A seat in Parliament without a contest does not
drop into every young man's mouth.'
'It very nearly dropped into mine.' Then he told his father-in-
law almost all the particulars of the offer which had been made
to him, and of the manner in which the seat was now suggested to
him. He somewhat hesitated in the use of the name of the
Duchess, leaving an impression on Mr Wharton that the offer had
in truth come from the Duke. 'Should there be a contest, would
you help me?'
'In what way? I could not canvass at Silverbridge, if you mean
that.'
'I was not thinking of giving you personal trouble.'
'I don't know a soul in the place. I shouldn't know that there
was such a place except that it returns members of Parliament.'
'I meant with money, sir.'
'To pay the election bills! No, certainly not. Why should I?'
'For Emily's sake.'
'I don't think it would do Emily any good, or you either. It
would certainly do me none. It is a kind of luxury that a man
should not attempt unless he can afford it easily.'
'A luxury!'
'Yes, a luxury; just as much as a four-in-hand coach, or a yacht.
Men go into Parliament because it gives them fashion, position,
and power.'
'I should go to serve my country.'
'Success in your profession I thought you said was your object.
Of course you must go as you please. If you ask me my advice, I
advise you not to try it. But certainly I will not help you with
money. That ass Everett is quarrelling with me at this moment
because I won't give him money to go and stand somewhere.'
'Not at Silverbridge?'
'I'm sure I can't say. But don't let me do him an injury. To
give him his due, he is more reasonable than you, and only wants
a promise from me that I will pay his electioneering bills for
him at the next general election. I have refused him,--though
for reasons which I need not mention I think him better fitted
for Parliament than you. I must certainly also refuse you. I
cannot imagine any circumstances which would induce me to pay a
shilling towards getting you into Parliament. If you won't drink
any more wine, we'll join Emily upstairs.'
This had been very plain speaking, and by no means comfortable to
Lopez. What of personal discourtesy there had been in the
lawyer's words,--and they had certainly not been flattering,--
he could throw off from him as meaning nothing. As he could not
afford to quarrel with his father-in-law, he thought it probable
that he might have to bear a good deal of incivility from the old
man. He was quite prepared to bear it as long as he could see a
chance of a reward;--though, should there be no such chance, he
would be ready to avenge it. But there had been a decision in
the present refusal which made him quite sure that it would be
vain to repeat his request. 'I shall find out, sir,' he said,
'whether it may probably be a costly affair, and if so I shall
give up. You are rather hard upon me as to my motives.'
'I only repeated what you told me yourself.'
'I am quite sure of my own intentions, and know that I need not
be ashamed of them.'
'Not if you have plenty of money. It all depends on that. If
you have plenty of money, and your fancy goes that way, it is all
very well. Come, we'll go upstairs.'
The next day he saw Everett Wharton, who welcomed him back with
warm affection. 'He'll do nothing for me;--nothing at all. I
am almost beginning to doubt whether he'll ever speak to me
again.'
'Nonsense.'
'I tell you everything, you know,' said Everett. 'In January I
lost a little money at whist. They got plunging at the club, and
I was in it. I had to tell him, of course. He keeps me so short
that I can't stand any blow without going to him like a school-
boy.'
'Was it much?'
'No;--to him no more than half-a-crown to you. I had to ask him
for a hundred and fifty.'
'He refused it!'
'No;--he didn't do that. Had it been ten times as much, if I
owed the money, he would pay it. But he blew me up, and talked
about gambling,--and--and--'
'I should have taken that as a matter of course.'
'But I'm not a gambler. A man now and then may fall into a thing
of that kind, and if he's decently well off and don't do it
often, he can bear it.'
'I thought your quarrel had been altogether about Parliament.'
'Oh no! He has been always the same about that. He told me that
I was going head foremost to the dogs, and I couldn't stand that.
I shouldn't be surprised if he hasn't lost more at cards than I
have during the last two years.' Lopez made an offer to act as
go-between, to effect a reconciliation; but Everett declined the
offer. 'It would be making too much of an absurdity,' he said.
'When he wants to see me, I suppose he'll send for me.'
Lopez did dispatch an agent down to Mr Sprugeon at Silverbridge,
and the agent found that Mr Sprugeon was a very discreet man. Mr
Sprugeon at first knew little or nothing,--seemed hardly to be
aware that there was a member of Parliament for Silverbridge, and
declared himself to be indifferent as to the parliamentary
character of the borough. But at last he melted a little, and by
degrees, over a glass of hot brandy-and-water with the agent at
the Palliser Arms, confessed to a shade of opinion that the
return of Mr Lopez for the borough would not be disagreeable to
some person or persons who did not live quite a hundred miles
away. The instructions given by Lopez to his agent were of the
most cautious kind. The agent was merely to feel the ground,
make a few inquiries, and do nothing. His client did not intend
to stand unless he could see the way to almost certain success
with very little outlay. But the agent, perhaps liking his job,
did a little outstep his employer's orders. Mr Sprugeon, when
the frost of his first modesty had been thawed, introduced the
agent to Mr Sprout, the maker of cork soles, and Mr Sprugeon and
Mr Sprout between them had soon decided that Mr Ferdinand Lopez
should be run for the borough as the 'Castle' candidate. 'The
Duke won't interfere,' said Sprugeon; 'and, of course, the Duke's
man of business can't do anything openly;--but the Duke's people
will know.' Then Mr Sprout told the agent that there was already
another candidate in the field, and in a whisper communicated the
gentleman's name. When the agent got back to London, he gave
Lopez to understand that he must certainly put himself forward.
The borough expected him. Sprugeon and Sprout considered
themselves pledged to bring him forward and support him,--on
behalf of the Castle. Sprugeon was quite sure that the Castle
influence was predominant. The Duke's name had never been
mentioned at Silverbridge,--hardly even that of the Duchess.
Since the Duke's declaration 'The Castle' had taken the part
which the old Duke used to play. The agent was quite sure that
no one would get in for Silverbridge without having the Castle on
His side. No doubt the Duke's declaration had the ill effect of
bringing in a competitor, and thus of causing expense. That
could not be helped. The agent was of the opinion that the Duke
had no alternative. The agent hinted that times were changing,
and that though dukes were still dukes, and could still exercise
ducal influences, they were driven by these changes to act in an
altered form. The proclamation had been especially necessary
because the Duke was Prime Minister. The agent did not think
that Mr Lopez should be in the least angry with the Duke.
Everything would be done that the Castle could do, and Lopez
would be no doubt returned,--though, unfortunately, not without
some expense. How would it cost? Any accurate answer to such a
question would be impossible, but probably about 600 pounds. It
might be 800 pounds;--could not possibly be above 1,000 pounds.
Lopez winced as he heard these sums named, but he did not decline
the contest.
Then the name of the opposition candidate was whispered to Lopez.
It was Arthur Fletcher! Lopez started, and asked some question
as to Mr Fletcher's interest in the neighbourhood. The Fletchers
were connected with the De Courcys, and as soon as the
declaration of the Duke had been made known, the De Courcy
interest had aroused itself, and had invited that rising young
barrister, Arthur Fletcher, to stand for the borough on strictly
conservative views. Arthur Fletcher had acceded, and a printed
declaration of his purpose and political principles had been just
published. 'I have beaten him once,' said Lopez to himself, 'and
I think I can beat him again.'
CHAPTER 30
'YES:--A LIE!'
'So you went to Happerton after all,' said Lopez to his ally, Mr
Sextus Parker. 'You couldn't believe me when I told you the
money was all right! What a cur you are!'
'That's right;--abuse me.'
'Well, it was horrid. Didn't I tell you that it must necessarily
injure me with the house? How are two fellows to get on together
unless they can put some trust in each other? Even if I did run
you into a difficulty, do you really think I'm ruffian enough to
tell you that the money was there if it was untrue?'
Sexty looked like a cur and felt like a cur, as he was being thus
abused. He was not angry with his friend for calling him bad
names, but only anxious to excuse himself. 'I was out of sorts,'
he said, 'and so d-d hippish. I didn't know what I was about.'
'Brandy-and-soda,' suggested Lopez.
'Perhaps a little of that;--though, by Jove, it isn't often I do
that kind of thing. I don't know a fellow who works harder for
his wife and children than I do. But when one sees such things
all round one,--a fellow utterly smashed here who had a string
of hunters yesterday, and another fellow buying a house in
Piccadilly and pulling it down because it isn't big enough, who
was contented with a little box in Hornsey last summer, one
doesn't quite know how to keep one's legs.'
'If you want to learn a lesson look at the two men, and see where
the difference lies. The one has had some heart about him, and
the other has been a coward.'
Parker scratched his head, balanced himself on the hind legs of
his stool, and tacitly acknowledged the truth of all that his
enterprising friend had said to him. 'Has old Wharton come down
well?' at last he asked.
'I have never said a word to old Wharton about money,' Lopez
replied,--'except as the cost of this election I was telling you
of.'
'And he wouldn't do anything in that?'
'He doesn't approve of the thing itself. I don't doubt but that
the old gentleman and I shall understand each other before long.'
'You've got the length of his foot.'
'But I don't mean to drive him. I can get along without that.
He's an old man, and he can't take his money along with him when
he goes the great journey.'
'There's a brother, Lopez,--isn't there?'
'Yes,--there's a brother; but Wharton has enough for two, and if
he were to put either out of his will it wouldn't be my wife.
Old men don't like parting with their money, and he's like other
old men. If it were not so I shouldn't bother myself coming into
the city at all.'
'Has he enough for that, Lopez?'
'I suppose he's worth a quarter of a million.'
'By Jove! And where did he get it?'
'Perseverance, sir. Put by a shilling a day, and let it have its
natural increase, and see what it will come to at the end of
fifty years. I suppose old Wharton has been putting two or three
thousand out of his professional income, at any rate for the last
thirty years, and never for a moment forgetting its natural
increase. That's one way to make a fortune.'
'It ain't rapid enough for you and me, Lopez.'
'No. That is the old-fashioned way, and the most sure. But, as
you say, it is not rapid enough; and it robs a man of the power
of enjoying his money when he has made it. But it's a very good
thing to be closely connected with a man who has already done
that kind of thing. There's not doubt about the money when it is
there. It does not take to itself wings and fly away.'
'But the man who has it sticks to it uncommon hard.'
'Of course he does;--but he can't take it away with him.'
'He can leave it to hospitals, Lopez. That's the devil.'
'Sexty, my boy, I see you have taken an outlook into human life
which does you credit. Yes, he can leave it to hospitals. But
why does he leave it to hospitals?'
'Something of being afraid about his soul, I suppose.'
'No; I don't believe in that. Such a man as this, who has been
hard-fisted all his life, and who has had his eyes thoroughly
open, who has made his own money in the sharp intercourse of man
to man, and who keeps it to the last gasp,--he doesn't believe
that he'll do his soul any good by giving it to hospitals when he
can't keep it himself any longer. His mind has freed itself from
those cobwebs long since. He gives his money to hospitals
because the last pleasure of which he is capable is that of
spitting his relations. And it is a great pleasure to an old
man, when his relations have been disgusted with him for being
old and loving his money. I rather think I should do it myself.'
'I'd give myself a chance of going to heaven, I think,' said
Parker.
'Don't you know that men will rob and cheat on their death-beds,
and say their prayers all the time? Old Wharton won't leave his
money to hospitals if he's well handled by those about him.'
'And you'll handle him well;--eh, Lopez?'
'I won't quarrel with him, or tell him that he's a curmudgeon
because he doesn't do all that I want him. He's over seventy,
and he can't carry his money with him.'
All this left so vivid an impression of the wisdom of his friend
on the mind of Sextus Parker, that in spite of the harrowing
fears by which he had been tormented on more than one occasion
already, he allowed himself to be persuaded into certain fiscal
arrangements, by which Lopez would find himself put at ease with
reference to money at any rate for the next four months. He had
at once told himself that this election would cost him 1,000
pounds. When various sums were mentioned in reference to such an
affair, safety alone could be found in taking the outside sum;--
perhaps might generally be more securely found by adding fifty
per cent to that. He knew that he was wrong about the election,
but he assured himself that he had had no alternative. The
misfortune had been that the Duke should have made his
proclamation about the borough immediately after the offer made
by the Duchess. He had been almost forced to send the agent down
to inquire;--and the agent, when making his inquiries, had
compromised him. He must go on with it now. Perhaps some idea
of the pleasantness of increased intimacy with the Duchess of
Omnium encouraged him in his way of thinking. The Duchess was up
in town in February, and Lopez left a card in Carlton Terrace.
On the very next day the card of the Duchess was left for Mrs
Lopez at the Belgrave Mansions.
Lopez went into the city every day, leaving home at about eleven
o'clock, and not returning much before dinner. The young wife at
first found that she hardly knew what to do with her time. Her
aunt, Mrs Roby, was distasteful to her. She had already learned
from her husband that he had but little respect for Mrs Roby.
'You remember the sapphire brooch,' he said once. 'That was part
of the price I had to pay for being allowed to approach you.' He
was sitting at the time with his hand round her waist, looking
out on the beautiful scenery and talking of his old difficulties.
She could not find it in her heart to be angry with him, but the
idea brought to her mind was disagreeable to her. And she was
thoroughly angry with Mrs Roby. Of course in these days Mrs Roby.
came to see her, and of course when she was up in Manchester
Square, she went to the house round the corner,--but there was
no close intimacy between the aunt and the niece. And many of
her father's friends,--whom she regarded as the Hertfordshire
set,--were very cold to her. She had not made herself a glory
to Hertfordshire, and,--as all these people said,--had broken
the heart of the best Hertfordshire young man of the day. This
made a great falling-off in her acquaintance, which was the more
felt as she had never been, as a girl, devoted to a large circle
of dearest female friends. She whom she had loved best had been
Mary Wharton, and Mary Wharton had refused to be her bridesmaid
almost without an expression of regret. She saw her father
occasionally. Once he came and dined with them at their rooms,
on which occasion Lopez struggled hard to make up a well-sounding
party. There were Roby from the Admiralty, and the Happertons,
and Sir Timothy Beeswax, with whom Lopez had become acquainted at
Gatherum, and old Lord Mongrober. But the barrister, who had
dined out a good deal in his time, perceived the effort. Who,
that ever with difficulty scraped his dinner guests together, was
able afterwards to obliterate the signs of the struggle? It was,
however, a first attempt, and Lopez, whose courage was good,
thought that he might do better before long. If he could get
into the House and make his mark there people then would dine
with him fast enough. But while that was going on Emily's life
was rather dull. He had provided her with a brougham, and
everything around her was even luxurious, but there came upon her
gradually a feeling that by her marriage she had divided herself
from her own people. She did not for a moment allow this feeling
to interfere with her loyalty to him. Had she not known that
this division would surely take place? Had she not married him
because she loved him better than her own people? So she sat
herself down to read Dante,--for they had studied Italian
together during their honeymoon, and she found that he knew the
language well. And she was busy with her needle. And she
already began to anticipate the happiness which would come to her
when a child of his should be lying in her arms.
She was of course much interested about the election. Nothing
could as yet be done, because as yet there was no vacancy; but
still the subject was discussed daily between them. 'Who do you
think is going to stand against me?' he said one day with a
smile. 'A very old friend of yours.' She knew at once who the
man was and the blood came to her face. 'I think he might as
well have left it alone, you know,' he said.
'Did he know?' she asked in a whisper.
'Know;--of course he knew. He is doing it on purpose. But I
beat him once, old girl, didn't I? And I'll beat him again.'
She liked him to call her old girl. She loved the perfect
intimacy with which he treated her. But there was something
which grated against her feelings in the allusion by him to the
other man who had loved her. Of course she had told him the whole
story. She had conceived it to be her duty to do so. But then
the thing should have been over. It was necessary, perhaps, that
he should tell her who was his opponent. It was impossible that
she should not know when the fight came. But she did not like to
hear that he had beaten Arthur Fletcher once, and that he would
beat him again. By doing so he likened the sweet fragrance of
her love to the dirty turmoil of an electioneering contest.
He did not understand--how could he?--that though she had never
loved Arthur Fletcher, had never been able to bring herself to
love him when all her friends had wished it, her feelings to him
were nevertheless those of affectionate friendship;--that she
regarded him as being perfect in his way, a thorough gentleman, a
man who would not for worlds tell a lie, as most generous among
the generous, most noble among the noble. When the other
Whartons had thrown her off, he had not been cold to her. That
very day, as soon as her husband had left her, she looked again
at that little note. 'I am as I always have been!' And she
remembered that farewell down by the banks of the Wye. 'You will
always have one,--one besides him,--who will love you best in
the world.' They were dangerous words for her to remember; but
in recalling them to her memory she had often assured herself
that they should not be dangerous to her. She had loved the one
man and had not loved the other;--but yet, now when her husband
talked of beating him again, she could not but remember his
words.
She did not think,--or rather had not thought,--that Arthur
Fletcher would willingly stand against her husband. It had
occurred to her at once that he must first have become a
candidate without knowing who would be his opponent. But
Ferdinand had assured her as a matter of fact that Fletcher had
known all about it. 'I suppose in politics men are different,'
she said to herself. Her husband had evidently supposed that
Arthur Fletcher had proposed himself as a candidate for
Silverbridge, with the express object of doing an injury to the
man who had carried off his love. And she repeated to herself
her husband's words, 'He's doing it on purpose.' She did not
like to differ from her husband, but she could hardly bring
herself to believe that revenge of this kind should have
recommended itself to Arthur Fletcher.
Some little time after this, when she had settled in London,
above a month, a letter was brought to her, and she at once
recognized Arthur Fletcher's writing. She was alone at the time,
and it occurred to her at first that perhaps she ought not to
open any communication from him without showing it to her
husband. But then it seemed that such a hesitation would imply a
doubt of the man, and almost a doubt of herself. Why should she
fear what any man might write to her? So she opened the letter,
and read it,--with infinite pleasure. It was as follows:
DEAR Mrs LOPEZ,
I think it best to make an explanation to you as to a
certain coincidence which might possibly be misunderstood
unless explained. I find that your husband and I are
opponents at Silverbridge. I wish to say that I had
pledged myself to the borough before I had heard his name
as connected with it. I have very old associations with
the neighbourhood, and was invited to stand by friends
who had known me all my life as soon as it was understood
that there would be an open contest. I cannot retire now
without breaking faith with my party, nor do I know that
there is a reason why I should do so. I should not,
however, have come forward had I known that Mr Lopez was
to stand. I think you had better tell him so, and tell
him also, with my compliments, that I hope we may fight
our political battle with mutual good-fellowship and good
feeling.
Yours very sincerely,
ARTHUR FLETCHER
Emily was very much pleased by this letter, and yet she wept over
it. She felt that she understood accurately all the motives that
were at work within the man's breast when he was writing it. As
to its truth,--of course the letter was gospel to her. Oh,--if
the man could become her husband's friend how sweet it would be!
Of course she wished, thoroughly wished, that her husband should
succeed at Silverbridge. But she could understand that such a
contest as this might be carried out without personal animosity.
The letter was so like Arthur Fletcher,--so good, so noble, so
generous, so true! The moment her husband came in she showed it
to him with delight. 'I was sure,' she said as he was reading
the letter, 'that he had not known you were to stand.'
'He knew it as well as I did,' he replied, and as he spoke there
came a dark scowl across his brow. 'His writing to you is a
piece of infernal impudence.'
'Oh, Ferdinand!'
'You don't understand, but I do. He deserves to be horsewhipped
for daring to write to you, and if I come across him he shall
have it.'
'Oh;--for heaven's sake.'
'A man who was your rejected lover,--who has been trying to
marry you for the last two years, presuming to commence a
correspondence with you without your husband's sanction!'
'He meant you to see it. He says I'm to tell you.'
'Psha! That is simple cowardice. He meant you not to tell me;
and then when you answered him without telling me, he would have
had the whip-hand of you.'
'Oh, Ferdinand, what evil thoughts you have!'
'You are a child, my dear, and must allow me to dictate to you
what you ought to think in such a matter as this. I tell you he
knew all about my candidature, and that what he has said here to
the contrary is a mere lie,--yes, a lie.' He repeated the word
because he saw that she shrank at hearing it; but he did not
understand why she shrank,--that the idea of such an accusation
against Arthur Fletcher was intolerable to her. 'I have never
heard of such a thing,' he continued. 'Do you suppose it is
common for men who have been thrown over to write to the ladies
who have rejected them immediately after their marriage?'
'Do not the circumstances justify it?'
'No;--they make it infinitely worse. He should have felt himself
to be debarred from writing to you, both as being my wife and as
being the wife of the man whom he intends to oppose at
Silverbridge.'
This he said with so much anger that he frightened her. 'It is
not my fault,' she said.
'No; it is not your fault. But you should regard it as a great
fault committed by him.'
'What am I to do?'
'Give me the letter. You, of course, can do nothing.'
'You will not quarrel with him?'
'Certainly I will. I have quarrelled with him already. Do you
think I will allow any man to insult my wife without quarrelling
with him? What I shall do I cannot as yet say, and whatever I
may do, you had better not know. I never thought much of these
Hertfordshire swells who believe themselves to be the very cream
of the earth, and now I think less of them than ever.'
He was then silent, and slowly she took herself out of the room,
and went away to dress. All this was very terrible. He had
never been rough to her before, and she could not at all
understand why he had been so rough to her now. Surely it was
impossible that he should be jealous because her old lover had
written to her such a letter as that which she had shown him!
And then she was almost stunned by the opinions he had expressed
about Fletcher, opinions which she knew,--was sure that she
knew,--to be absolutely erroneous. A liar! Oh, heavens! And
then the letter itself was so ingenuous and so honest! Anxious
as she was to do all that her husband bade her, she could not be
guided by him in this matter. And then she remembered his words:
'You must allow me to dictate to you what you ought to think.'
Could it be that marriage meant as much as that,--that a husband
was to claim to dictate to his wife what opinions she was to form
about this and that person,--about a person she had known so
well, whom he had never known? Surely she could only think in
accordance with her own experience and her own intelligence! She
was certain that Arthur Fletcher was no liar. Not even her own
husband could make her think that.
CHAPTER 31
'YES;--WITH A HORSEWHIP IN MY HAND.'
Emily Lopez, when she crept out of her own room and joined her
husband just before dinner, was hardly able to speak to him so
thoroughly was she dismayed, and troubled, and horrified, by the
manner in which he had taken Arthur Fletcher's letter. While she
had been alone she had thought it all over, anxious if possible
to bring herself into sympathy with her husband; but the more she
thought of it the more evident did it become to her that he was
altogether wrong. He was so wrong that it seemed to her that she
would be a hypocrite if she pretended to agree with him. There
were half-a-dozen accusations conveyed against Mr Fletcher by her
husband's view of the matter. He was a liar, giving a false
account of his candidature;--and he was a coward; and an enemy
to her, who had laid a plot by which he had hoped to make her act
fraudulently towards her own husband, who had endeavoured to
creep into a correspondence with her, and so to compromise her!
All this, which her husband's mind so easily conceived, was not
only impossible to her, but so horrible that she could not
refrain from disgust at her husband's conception. The letter had
been left with him, but she remembered every word of it. She was
sure that it was an honest letter, meaning no more than had been
said,--simply intending to explain to her that he would not
willingly have stood in the way of a friend whom he had loved, by
interfering with her husband's prospects. And yet she was told
that she was to think as her husband bade her think! She could
not think so. She could not say that she thought so. If her
husband would not credit her judgement, let the matter be
referred to her father. Ferdinand would at any rate acknowledge
that her father could understand such a matter even if she could
not.
During dinner he said nothing on the subject, nor did she. They
were attended by a page in buttons whom he had hired to wait upon
her, and the meal passed off almost in silence. She looked up at
him frequently and saw that his brow was still black. As soon as
they were alone she spoke to him, having studied during dinner
what words she would first say: 'Are you going down to the club
tonight!' He had told her that the matter of this election had
been taken up at the Progress, and that possibly he might have to
meet two or three persons there on this evening. There had been
a proposition that the club should bear a part of the
expenditure, and he was very solicitous that such an arrangement
should be made.
'No,' said he, 'I shall not go out to-night. I am not
sufficiently light-hearted.'
'What makes you heavy-hearted, Ferdinand?'
'I should have thought you would have known.'
'I suppose I do know,--but I don't know why it should. I don't
know why you should be displeased. At any rate, I have done
nothing wrong.'
'No;--not as to the letter. But it astonishes me that you
should be so--so bound to this man that-'
'Bound to him, Ferdinand!'
'No;--you are bound to me. But that you have so much regard for
him as not to see that he has grossly insulted you.'
'I have a regard for him.'
'And you dare to tell me so?'
'Dare! What should I be if I had any feeling which I did not
dare to tell you? There is no harm in regarding a man with
friendly feelings whom I have known since I was a child, and whom
all my family have loved.'
'Your family wanted you to marry him!'
'They did. But I have married you, because I loved you. But I
need not think badly of an old friend, because I did not love
him. Why should you be angry with him? What can you have to be
afraid of?' Then she came and sat on his knee and caressed him.
'It is he that shall be afraid of me,' said Lopez. 'Let him give
the borough up if he means what he says.'
'Who could ask him to do that?'
'Not you,--certainly.'
'Oh, no.'
'I can ask him.'
'Could you, Ferdinand?'
'Yes;--with a horsewhip in my hand.'
'Indeed, indeed you do not know him. Will you do this;--will
you tell my father everything, and leave it to him to say whether
Mr Fletcher has behaved badly to you?'
'Certainly not. I will not have any interference from your
father between you and me. If I had listened to your father, you
would not have been here now. Your father is not as yet a friend
of mine. When he comes to know what I can do for myself, and
that I can rise higher than these Hertfordshire people, then
perhaps he may become my friend. But I will consult him in
nothing so peculiar to myself as my own wife. And you must
understand that in coming to me all obligation from you to him
become extinct. Of course he is your father; but in such a
matter as this he has no more say to you than any stranger.'
After that he hardly spoke to her; but sat for an hour with a
book in his hand, and then rose and said that he would go down to
the club. 'There is so much villainy about,' he said, 'that a
man if he means to do anything must keep himself on the watch.'
When she was alone she at once burst into tears; but she soon
dried her eyes, and putting down her work, settled herself to
think of it all. What did it mean? Why was he thus changed to
her? Could it be that he was the same Ferdinand to whom she had
given herself, without a doubt as to his personal merit? Every
word that he had spoken since she had shown him the letter from
Arthur Fletcher had been injurious to her, and offensive. It
almost seemed as though he had determined to show himself to be a
tyrant to her, and had only put off playing the part till the
first convenient opportunity after their honeymoon. But through
all this, her ideas were loyal to him. She would obey him in all
things where obedience was possible, and would love him better
than all the world. Oh yes;--for was he not her husband? Were
he to prove himself the worst of men she would still love him.
It had been for better or for worse; and as she had repeated the
words to herself, she had sworn that if the worst should come,
she would still be true.
But she could not bring herself to say that Arthur Fletcher had
behaved badly. She could not. She knew well that his conduct
had been noble and generous. Then unconsciously and
involuntarily,--or rather in opposition to her own will and
inward efforts,--her mind would draw comparisons between her
husband and Arthur Fletcher. There was some peculiar gift, or
grace, or acquirement belonging without dispute to the one, which
the other lacked. What was it? She had heard her father say
when talking of gentlemen,--of that race of gentlemen with whom
it had been his lot to live,--that you could not make a silk
purse out of a sow's ear. The use of the proverb had offended
her much, for she had known well whom he had then regarded as a
silk purse and whom a sow's ear. But now she perceived that
there had been truth in all this, though she was as anxious as
ever to think well of her husband, and to endow him with all
possible virtues. She had once ventured to form a doctrine for
herself, to preach to herself a sermon of her own, and to tell
herself that this gift of gentle blood and of gentle nurture, of
which her father thought so much, and to which something of
divinity was attributed down in Hertfordshire, was after all but
a weak, spiritless quality. It could exist without intellect,
without heart, and with very moderate culture. It was compatible
with many littlenesses and with many vices. As for that love of
honest, courageous truth which her father was wont to attribute
to it, she regarded his theory as based on legends, as in earlier
years was the theory of the courage, and constancy, and loyalty,
of the knights of those days. The beau ideal of a man which she
then pictured to herself was graced, first with intelligence,
then with affection, and lastly with ambition. She knew no
reason why such a hero as her fancy created should be born of
lords and ladies rather than of working mechanics, should be
English rather than Spanish or French. The man could not be her
hero without education, without attributes to be attained no
doubt more easily by the rich than the poor; but, with that
granted, with those attained, she did not see why she, or why the
world, should go beyond the man's own self. Such had been her
theories as to men and their attributes, and acting on that, she
had given herself and all her happiness into the keeping of
Ferdinand Lopez. Now, there was gradually coming upon her a
change in her convictions,--a change that was most unwelcome,
that she strove to reject,--one which she would not acknowledge
that she had adopted even while adopting it. But now,--ay, from
the very hour of her marriage,--she had commenced to learn what
it was that her father had meant when he spoke of the pleasure of
living with gentlemen. Arthur Fletcher certainly was a
gentleman. He would not have entertained the suspicion which her
husband had expressed. He could not have failed to believe such
assertions as had been made. He could never have suggested to
his own wife that another man had endeavoured to entrap her into
a secret correspondence. She seemed to hear the tones of Arthur
Fletcher's voice, as those of her husband still rang in her ear
when he bade her remember that she was now removed from her
father's control. Every now and then the tears would come to her
eyes, and she would sit pondering, listless, low in heart. Then
she would suddenly rouse herself with a shake, and take up her
book with a resolve that she would read steadily, would assure
herself as she did so that her husband should still be her hero.
The intelligence at any rate was there, and, in spite of his
roughness, the affection which she craved. And the ambition,
too, was there. But, alas, alas! why should such vile suspicions
have fouled his mind?
He was late that night, but when he came he kissed her brow as
she lay in bed, and she knew that his temper was again smooth.
She feigned to be sleepy, though not asleep, as she just put her
hand up to his cheek. She did not wish to speak to him again
that night, but she was glad to know that in the morning he would
smile on her. 'Be early at breakfast,' he said to her as he left
her next morning, 'for I'm going down to Silverbridge today.'
Then she started up. 'To-day!'
'Yes,--by the 11.20. There is plenty of time, only don't be
unusually late.'
Of course she was something more than usually early, and when she
came out she found him reading his paper. 'It's all settled
now,' he said. 'Grey has applied for the Hundreds, and Mr
Rattler is to move for the new writ to-morrow. It has come
rather sudden at last, as these things always do after long
delays. But they say the suddenness is rather in my favour.'
'When will the election take place?'
'I suppose in about a fortnight;--perhaps a little longer.'
'And must you be at Silverbridge all that time?'
'Oh dear no. I shall stay there to-night, and perhaps to-morrow
night. Of course I shall telegraph you directly I find how it is
to be. I shall see the principal inhabitants, and probably make
a speech or two.'
'I do wish I could hear you.'
'You'd find it awfully dull work, my girl. And I shall find it
awfully dull too. I do not imagine that Mr Sprugeon and Mr
Sprout will be pleasant companions. Well; I shall stay there a
day or two and settle when I am to go down for the absolute
canvass. I shall have to go with my hat in my hand to every
blessed inhabitant in that dirty little town, and ask them all to
be kind enough to drop in a paper for the most humble of their
servants, Ferdinand Lopez.'
'I suppose all candidates have to do the same.'
'Oh yes;--your friend, Master Fletcher, will have to do it.' She
winced at this. Arthur Fletcher was her friend, but at the
present moment he ought not so to have spoken of him. 'And from
all I hear, he is just the sort of fellow that will like the
doing of it. It is odious to me to ask a fellow that I despise
for anything.'
'Why should you despise them?'
'Low, ignorant, greasy cads, who have no idea of the real meaning
of political privileges;--men who would all sell their votes for
thirty shillings each, if that game had not been made a little
too hot!'
'If they are like that I would not represent them.'
'Oh yes, you would;--when you came to understand the world.
It's a fine thing to be in Parliament, and that is the way to get
in. However, on this visit I shall only see the great men of the
town,--the Sprouts and Sprugeons.'
'Shall you go to Gatherum Castle?'
'Oh, heavens no! I may go anywhere now rather than there. The
Duke is supposed to be in absolute ignorance of the very names of
the candidates, or whether there are candidates. I don't suppose
that the word Silverbridge will be even whispered in his ear till
the thing is over.'
'But you are to get in by his friendship.'
'Or by hers;--at least I hope so. I have no doubt that the
Sprouts and the Sprugeons have been given to understand by the
Lococks and the Pritchards what are the Duchess's wishes, and
that it has also been intimated in some subtle way that the Duke
is willing to oblige the Duchess. There are ever so many ways,
you know, of killing a cat.'
'And the expense?' suggested Emily.
'Oh,--ah; the expense. When you come to talk of the expense
things are not so pleasant. I never saw such a set of
meaningless asses in my life as those men at the club. They talk
and talk, but there is not one of them who knows how to do
anything. Now at the club over the way, they do arrange matters.
It's a common cause, and I don't see what right they have to
expect that one man should bear all the expense. I've a deuced
good mind to leave them in the lurch.'
'Don't do it, Ferdinand, if you can't afford it.'
'I shall go with it now. I can't help feeling that I've been a
little let in among them. When the Duchess first promised me it
was to be a simple walk over. Now that they've got their
candidate, they go back from that and open the thing to any
comer. I can't tell you what I think of Fletcher for taking
advantage of such a chance. And then the political committee of
the club coolly say that they've got no money. It isn't honest,
you know.'
'I don't understand all that,' said Emily sadly. Every word that
he said about Fletcher cut her to the heart;--not because it
grieved her that Fletcher should be abused, but that her husband
should condescend to abuse him. She escaped from further
conflict at the moment by proclaiming her ignorance of the whole
matter; but she knew enough of it to be well aware that Arthur
Fletcher had as good a right to stand as her husband, and that
her husband lowered himself by personal animosity to the man.
Then Lopez took his departure. 'Oh, Ferdinand,' she said, 'I do
so hope you may be successful.'
'I don't think he can have a chance. From what people say, he
must be a fool to try. That is, the Castle is true to me. I
shall know more about it when I come back.'
That afternoon she dined with her father, and there met Mrs Roby.
It was of course known that Lopez had gone down to Silverbridge,
and Emily learned in Manchester Square that Everett had gone with
him. 'From all I hear, they're two fools for their pains,' said
the lawyer.
'Why, papa?'
'The Duke has given the thing up.'
'But still his interest remains.'
'No such thing! If there is an honest man in England it is the
Duke of Omnium, and when he says a thing he means it. Left to
themselves the people of a little town like Silverbridge are sure
to return a Conservative. They are half of them small farmers,
and of course will go that way if not made to go to the other.
If the club mean to pay the cost--'
'The club will pay nothing, papa.'
'Then I can only hope that Lopez is doing well in his business!'
After that nothing further was said about the election, but she
perceived that her father was altogether opposed to the idea of
her husband being in Parliament, and that his sympathies and even
his wishes were on the other side. When Mrs Roby suggested that
it would be a very nice thing for them all to have Ferdinand in
Parliament,--she always called him Ferdinand now,--Mr Wharton
railed at her. 'Why should it be a nice thing? I wonder whether
you have any idea of a meaning in your head when you say that.
Do you suppose that a man gets 1000 pounds a year by going into
Parliament?'
'Laws, Mr Wharton; how uncivil you are! Of course I know that
members of Parliament aren't paid.'
'Where's the niceness then? If a man has his time at his command
and has studied the art of legislation it be nice, because he
will be doing his duty;--or if he wants to get into the
government ruck like your brother-in-law, it may be nice;--or if
he be an idle man with a large fortune it may be nice to have
some place to go. But why should it be nice for Ferdinand Lopez.
I cannot understand. Everett has some idea in his head when he
talks about Parliament,--though I cannot say that I agree with
him.' It may easily be understood that after this Emily would
say nothing further in Manchester Square as to her husband's
prospects at Silverbridge.
Lopez was at Silverbridge for a couple of days, and then
returned, as his wife thought, by no means confident of success.
He remained in town nearly a week, and during that time he
managed to see the Duchess. He had written to her saying that he
would do himself the honour of calling on her, and when he came
was admitted. But the account he gave to his wife of the visit
did not express much satisfaction. It was quite late in the
evening before he told her whither he had been. He had intended
to keep the matter to himself, and at last spoke of it,--guided
by the feeling which induces all men to tell their secrets to
their wives,--because it was a comfort to him to talk to someone
who would not openly contradict him. 'She's a sly creature after
all,' he said.
'I had always thought that she was too open rather than sly,'
said his wife.
'People always try to get a character just opposite to what they
deserve. When I hear that a man is always to be believed, I know
that he is the most dangerous liar going. She hummed and hawed
and would not say a word about the borough. She went so far as
to tell me that I wasn't to say a word about it to her.'
'Wasn't that best if her husband wished her not to talk of it?'
'It is all humbug and falsehood to the very bottom. She knows
that I am spending money about it, and she ought to be on the
square with me. She ought to tell me what she can do and what
she can't. When I asked her whether Sprugeon might be trusted,
she said that she really wished I wouldn't say anything more to
her about it. I call that dishonest and sly. I shouldn't at all
wonder but that Fletcher has been with the Duke. If I find that
out, won't I expose them both!'
CHAPTER 32
'WHAT BUSINESS IS IT OF YOURS?'
Things had not gone altogether smoothly with the Duchess herself
since the breaking up of the party at Gatherum Castle,--nor
perhaps quite smoothly with the Duke. It was now March. The
House was again sitting, and they were both in London,--but till
they came to town they had remained at the Castle, and that huge
mansion had not been found to be more comfortable by either of
them as it became empty. For a time the Duchess had been cowed
by her husband's stern decision; but as he again became gentle to
her,--almost seeming by his manner to apologize for his unwonted
roughness,--she plucked up her spirit and declared herself that
she would not give up the battle. All that she did,--was it not
for his sake? And why should she not have her ambition in life
as well as he have his? And had she not succeeded in all that
she had done? Could it be right that she should be asked to
abandon everything, to own herself to have been defeated, to be
shown to have failed before all the world, because such a one as
Major Pountney had made a fool of himself? She attributed it all
to Major Pountney;--very wrongly. When a man's mind is veering
towards some decision, some conclusion which he has been perhaps
slow in reaching, it is probably a little thing which at last
fixes his mind and clenches his thoughts. The Duke had been
gradually teaching himself to hate the crowd around him and to
reprobate his wife's strategy, before he had known that there was
a Major Pountney under his roof. Others had offended him, and
first and foremost among them his own colleague, Sir Orlando.
The Duchess hardly read his character aright, and certainly did
not understand his present motives, when she thought that all
might be forgotten as soon as the disagreeable savour of the
Major should have passed away.
But in nothing, as she thought, had her husband been so silly as
in his abandonment of Silverbridge. When she heard that the day
was fixed for declaring the vacancy, she ventured to ask him a
question. His manner to her lately had been more than urbane,
more than affectionate,--it had almost been that of a lover. He
had petted her and caressed her when they met, and once even said
that nothing should really trouble him as long as he had her with
him. Such a speech as that never in his life had he made before
to her! So she plucked up her courage and asked her question,--
not exactly on that occasion, but soon afterwards. 'May I not
say a word to Sprugeon about the election?'
'Not a word!' And he looked at her as he had looked on that day
when he had told her of the Major's sins. She tossed her head
and pouted her lips and walked on without speaking. If it was to
be so, then indeed would she have failed. And, therefore, though
in his general manner he was loving to her, things were not going
smooth with her.
And things were not going smooth with him because there had
reached him a most troublous dispatch from Sir Orlando Drought
only two days before the Cabinet meeting at which the points to
be made in the Queen's speech were to be decided. It had been
already agreed that a proposition should be made to Parliament by
the Government, for an extension of the country suffrage, with
some slight redistribution of seats. The towns with less than
20,000 inhabitants were to take in some increased portion of the
country parishes around. But there was not enough of a policy in
this to satisfy Sir Orlando, nor was the conduct of the bill
through the House to be placed in his hands. That was to be
entrusted to Mr Monk, and Mr Monk would be, if not nominally the
leader, yet the chief man of the Government of the House of
Commons. This was displeasing to Sir Orlando, and he had,
therefore, demanded from the Prime Minister more of a 'policy'.
Sir Orlando's present idea of a policy was the building of four
bigger ships of war than had ever been built before,--with
larger guns, and more men, and thicker iron plates, and, above
all, with a greater expenditure of money. He had even gone so
far as to say, though not in his semi-official letter to the
Prime Minister, that he thought that 'The Salvation of the
Empire' should be the cry of the Coalition party. 'After all,'
he said, 'what the people care about is the Salvation of the
Empire!' Sir Orlando was at the head of the Admiralty; and if
glory was to be achieved by the four ships, it would rest first
on the head of Sir Orlando.
Now the Duke thought that the Empire was safe, and had been
throughout his political life averse to increasing the army and
the navy estimates. He regarded the four ships as altogether
unnecessary,--and when reminded that he might in this way
consolidate the Coalition, said that he would rather do without
the Coalition and the four ships than have to do with both of
them together,--an opinion which was thought by some to be
almost traitorous to the party as now organized. The secrets of
Cabinets are not to be disclosed lightly, but it came to be
understood,--as what is done at Cabinet meetings generally does
come to be understood,--that there was something like
disagreement. The Prime Minister, the Duke of St Bungay, and Mr
Monk were altogether against the four ships. Sir Orlando, who
was supported by Lord Drummond and another of his old friends.
At the advice of the elder Duke, a paragraph was hatched, in
which it was declared that her Majesty, 'having regard to the
safety of the nation and the possible, though happily not
probable, chances of war, thought that the present strength of
the navy should be considered'. 'It will give him scope for a
new gun-boat on an altered principle,' said the Duke of St
Bungay. But the Prime Minister, could he have his own way, would
have given Sir Orlando no scope whatever. He would have let the
Coalition have gone to the dogs and have fallen himself into
infinite political ruin, but that he did not dare that men should
thereafter say of him that this attempt at government had failed
because he was stubborn, imperious, and self-confident. He had
known when he took his present place he must yield to others; but
he had not known how terrible it would be to have to yield when a
principle is in question,--how great was the suffering when a
man finds himself compelled to do that which he thinks should not
be done! Therefore, though he had been strangely loving to his
wife, the time had not gone smoothly with him.
In direct disobedience to her husband the Duchess did speak a
word to Mr Sprugeon. When at the Castle she was frequently
driven through Silverbridge, and on one occasion had her carriage
stopped at the ironmonger's door. Out came Mr Sprugeon, and
there were at first half-a-dozen standing by who could hear what
she said. Millepois the cook wanted to have some new kind of
iron plate erected in the kitchen. Of course she had provided
herself beforehand with her excuse. As a rule, when the cook
wanted anything done, he did not send word to the tradesman by
the Duchess. But on this occasion the Duchess was personally
most anxious. She wanted to see how the iron plate would work.
It was to be a particular kind of iron plate. Then, having
watched her opportunity, she said her word, 'I suppose we shall
be safe with Mr Lopez?' When Mr Sprugeon was about to reply, she
shook her head and went on about the iron plate. This would be
quite enough to let Mr Sprugeon understand that she was still
anxious about the borough. Mr Sprugeon was an intelligent man,
and possessed of discretion to a certain extent. As soon as he
saw the little frown and shake of the head, he understood it all.
He and the Duchess had a secret together. Would not everything
about the Castle in which a morsel of iron was employed want
renewing? And would not the Duchess take care that it should all
be renewed by Sprugeon? But then he must be active, and his
activity would be of no avail unless others helped him. So he
whispered a word to Sprout, and it soon became known that the
Castle interest was all alive.
But unfortunately the Duke was also on the alert. The Duke had
been very much in earnest when he made up his mind that the old
custom should be abandoned at Silverbridge and had endeavoured to
impress that determination of his upon his wife. The Duke knew
more about his property and was better acquainted with its
details than his wife or others believed. He heard that in spite
of all his orders the Castle interest was being maintained, and a
word was said to him which seemed to imply that this was his
wife's doings. It was then about the middle of February, and
arrangements were in process for the removal of the family to
London. The Duke had already been up to London for the meeting
of Parliament, and had now come back to Gatherum, purporting to
return to London with his wife. Then it was that it was hinted
to him that her Grace was still anxious as to the election,--and
had manifested her anxiety. The rumour hurt him, though he did
not in the least believe it. It showed to him, as he thought,
not that his wife had been false to him,--as in truth she had
been,--but that even her name could not be kept free from
slander. And when he spoke to her on the subject, he did so
rather with the view of proving to her how necessary it was that
she should keep herself altogether aloof from such matters, than
with any wish to make further inquiry. But he elicited the whole
truth. 'It is so hard to kill an old-established evil,' he said.
'What evil have you failed to kill now?'
'Those people at Silverbridge still say I want to return a member
for them.'
'Oh; that's the evil! You know I think instead of killing an
evil, you have murdered an excellent institution.' This at any
rate was very imprudent on the part of the Duchess. After that
disobedient word spoken to Mr Sprugeon, she should have been more
on her guard.
'As to that, Glencora, I must judge for myself.'
'Oh yes,--you have been jury, and judge, and executioner.'
'I have done as I thought right to do. I am sorry that I should
fail to carry you with me in such a matter, but even failing in that
I must do my duty. You will at any rate agree with me that when
I say the thing should be done, it should be done.'
'If you wanted to destroy the house, and cut down all the trees,
and turn the place into a wilderness, I suppose you would only
have to speak. Of course I know it would be wrong that I should
have an opinion. As "man" you are of course to have your own
way.' She was in one of her most aggravating moods. Though he
might compel her to obey, he could not compel her to hold her
tongue.
'Glencora, I don't think you know how much you add to my
troubles, or you would not speak to me like that.'
'What am I to say? It seems to me that any more suicidal thing
than throwing away the borough never was done. Who will thank
you? What additional support will you get? How will it increase
your power? It's like King Lear throwing off his clothes in the
storm because his daughters turned him out. And you didn't do it
because you thought it right.'
'Yes, I did,' he said, scowling.
'You did it because Major Pountney disgusted you. You kicked him
out. Why wouldn't that satisfy without sacrificing the borough?
It isn't what I think or say about it, but that everybody is
thinking and saying the same thing.'
'I choose that it will be so.'
'Very well.'
'And I don't choose your name shall be mixed up in it. They say
at Silverbridge that you are canvassing for Mr Lopez.'
'Who says so?'
'I presume it's not true.'
'Who says so, Plantagenet?'
'It matters not who has said so. If it be untrue, I presume it
to be false.'
'Of course it is false.' Then the Duchess remembered her word to
Mr Sprugeon, and the cowardice of the lie was heavy on her. I
doubt whether she would have been so shocked by the idea of
falsehood as to have been kept back from it had she before
resolved that it would save her; but she was not in her practice
a false woman, her courage being too high for falsehood. It now
seemed to her that by this lie she was owning herself to be
quelled and brought into absolute subjection by her husband. So
she burst forth the truth. 'Now I think of it, I did say a word
to Mr Sprugeon. I told him that, that I hoped Mr Lopez would be
returned. I don't know whether you call that canvassing.'
'I desired you not to speak to Mr Sprugeon.'
'That's all very well, Plantagenet, but if you desire me to hold
my tongue altogether, what am I to do?'
'What business is this of yours?'
'I suppose I may have my political sympathies as well as another.
Really you are becoming so autocratic that I shall have to go in
for women's rights.'
'You mean me to understand then that you intend to put yourself
in opposition to me.'
'What a fuss you make about it all!' she said. 'Nothing that one
can do is right! You make me wish that I was a milkmaid or a
farmer's wife.' So saying she bounced out of the room, leaving
the Duke sick at heart, low in spirit, and doubtful whether he
were right or wrong in his attempts to manage his wife. Surely
he must be right in feeling that in his high office a clearer
conduct and cleaner way of walking was expected from him than
from other men! Noblesse oblige! To his uncle the privilege of
returning a member to Parliament had been a thing of course; and
when the radical newspapers of the day abused his uncle, his
uncle took that abuse as a thing of course. The old Duke acted
after his kind, and did not care what others said of him. And he
himself, when he first came to his dukedom, was not as he was
now. Duties, though they were heavy enough, were lighter then.
Serious matters were less serious. There was this and that
matter of public policy on which he was intent, but, thinking
humbly of himself, he had not yet learned to conceive that he
must fit his public conduct in all things to a straight rule of
patriotic justice. Now it was different with him, and though the
change was painful, he felt it to be imperative. He would fain
have been as other men, but he could not. But in this change it
was so needful to him that should carry with him the full
sympathies of one person;--that she who was nearest to him of
all should act with him! And now she had not only disobeyed him,
but had told him, as some grocer's wife might tell her husband,
that he was 'making a fuss of it all'!
And then, as he thought of the scene which has been described, he
could not quite approve of himself. He knew that he was too
self-conscious,--that he was thinking too much about his own
conduct and the conduct of others to him. The phrase had been
odious to him, but still he could not acquit himself of 'making a
fuss'. Of one thing only was he sure,--that a grievous calamity
had befallen him when circumstances compelled him to become the
Queen's Prime Minister.
He said nothing further to his wife till they were in London
together, and then he was tempted to caress her again, to be
loving to her, and to show her that he had forgiven her. But
she was brusque to him, as though she did not wish to be
forgiven. 'Cora,' he said, 'do not separate yourself from me.'
'Separate myself! What on earth do you mean? I have not dreamed
of such a thing.' The Duchess answered him as though he had
alluded to some actual separation.
'I do not mean that. God forbid that a misfortune such as that
should ever happen! Do not disjoin yourself from me in all these
troubles.'
'What am I to do when you scold me? You must know pretty well by
this time that I don't like being scolded. "I desired you not to
speak to Mr Sprugeon!"' As she repeated his words she imitated
his manner and voice closely. 'I shouldn't dream of addressing
the children with such magnificence of anger. "What business is
it of yours!" No woman likes that sort of thing, and I'm not
sure that I am acquainted with any woman who likes it much less
than--Glencora, Duchess of Omnium.' As she said these last
words in a low whisper, she curtsied down to the ground.
'You know how anxious I am,' he began, 'that you should share
everything with me,--even in politics. But in all things there
must at last be one voice that shall be the ruling voice.'
'And that is to be yours,--of course.'
'In such a matter it must be.'
'And, therefore, I like to do a little business of my own behind
your back. It's human nature, and you've got to put up with it.
I wish you had a better wife. I dare say there are many who
would be better. There is the Duchess of St Bungay who never
troubles her husband about politics, but only scolds him because
the wind blows from the east. It is just possible that there
might be worse.'
'Oh, Glencora!'
'You had better make the best you can of your bargain and not
expect too much from her. And don't ride over her with a very
high horse. And let her have her own way a little if you really
believe that she has your interest at heart.'
After this he was quite aware that she had got the better of him
altogether. On that occasion he smiled and kissed her, and went
his way. But he was by no means satisfied. That he should be
thwarted by her, ate into his very heart,--and it was a wretched
thing to him that he could not make her understand his feeling in
that respect. If it were to go on he must throw up everything.
Ruat coelum fiat--proper subordination from his wife in regard
to public matters! No wife had a fuller allowance of privilege,
or more complete power in her hands, as to things fit for a
woman's management. But it was intolerable to him that she
should seek to interfere with him in matters of a public nature.
And she was constantly doing so. She had always this or that
aspirant for office on hand,--this or that job to be carried,
though the jobs were not perhaps much in themselves;--this or
that affair to be managed by her own political allies, such as
Barrington Erle and Phineas Finn. And in his heart he suspected
her of a design of managing the Government in her own way, with
her own particular friend, Mrs Finn, for her Prime Minister. If
he could in no other way put an end to such evils as these, he
must put an end to his own political life. Ruat coelum fiat
justitia. Now 'justitia' to him was not compatible with feminine
interference in his own special work.
It may therefore be understood that things were not going very
smoothly with the Duke and Duchess; and it may also be understood
why the Duchess had very little to say to Mr Lopez about the
election. She was aware that she owed something to Mr Lopez,
whom she had certainly encouraged to stand for the borough, and
she had therefore sent her card to his wife and was prepared to
invite them both to her parties;--but just at present she was a
little tired of Ferdinand Lopez, and perhaps unjustly disposed to
couple him with the unfortunate wretch, Major Pountney.
CHAPTER 33
SHOWING THAT A MAN SHOULD NOT HOWL.
Arthur Fletcher, in his letter to Mrs Lopez, had told her that
when he found out who was to be his antagonist at Silverbridge,
it was too late for him to give up the contest. He was, he said,
bound in faith to continue it by what had passed between himself
and others. But in truth he had not reached this conclusion
without some persuasion from others. He had been at Longbarns
with his brother when he first heard that Lopez intended to
stand, and he at once signified his desire to give way. The
information reached him from Mr Frank Gresham, of Greshambury, a
gentleman connected with the De Courcys who was now supposed to
represent the De Courcy interest in the county, and who had first
suggested to Arthur that he should come forward. It was held at
Longbarns that Arthur was bound in honour to Mr Gresham and to Mr
Gresham's friends, and to this opinion he had yielded.
Since Emily Wharton's marriage her name had never been mentioned
at Longbarns in Arthur's presence. When he was away,--and of
course his life was chiefly passed in London,--old Mrs Fletcher
was free enough in her abuse of the silly creature who had
allowed herself to be taken out of her own rank by a Portuguese
Jew. But she had been made to understand by her elder son, the
lord of Longbarns, that not a word was to be said when Arthur was
there. 'I think he ought to be taught to forget her.' Mrs
Fletcher had said. But John in his own quiet but imperious way,
had declared that there were some men to whom such lessons could
not be taught, and that Arthur was one of them. 'Is he never to
get a wife, then?' Mrs Fletcher had asked. John wouldn't
pretend to answer the question, but was quite sure that his
brother would not be tempted into other matrimonial arrangements
by anything that could be said against Emily Lopez. When Mrs
Fletcher declared her extreme anger that Arthur was a fool for
his trouble, John did not contradict her, but declared that the
folly was of a nature to require tender treatment.
Matters were in this condition at Longbarns when Arthur
communicated to his brother the contents of Mr Gresham's letter,
and expressed his own purpose of giving up Silverbridge. 'I
don't quite see that,' said John.
'No;--and it is impossible that you should be expected to see
it. I don't quite know how to talk about it even to you, though
I think you are about the softest-hearted fellow out.'
'I don't acknowledge the soft heart,--but go on.'
'I don't want to interfere with that man. I have a sort of
feeling that as he has got her he might as well have the seat
too.'
'The seat, as you call it, is not there for his gratification or
for yours. The seat is there in order that the people of
Silverbridge may be represented in Parliament.'
'Let them get somebody else. I don't want to put myself in
opposition to him, and I certainly do not want to oppose her.'
'They can't change their candidate in that way at a day's notice.
You would be throwing Gresham over, and, if you ask me, I think
that is a thing you have no right to do. This objection of yours
is sentimental, and there is nothing of which a man should be so
much in dread is sentimentalism. It is not your fault that you
oppose Mr Lopez. You were in the field first, and you must go on
with it.' John Fletcher, when he spoke in this way, was, at
Longbarns, always supposed to be right; and on the present
occasion he, as usual, prevailed. Then Arthur Fletcher wrote his
letter to the lady. He would not have liked to have had it known
that the composition and copying of that little note had cost him
an hour. He had wished that she should understand his feelings,
and yet it was necessary that he should address her in words that
should be perfectly free from affection or emotion. He must let
her know that, though he wrote to her, the letter was for her
husband as well as for herself, and he must do this in a manner
which would not imply any fear that his writing to her would be
taken amiss. The letter when completed was at any rate simple
and true; and yet, as we know, it was taken very much amiss.
Arthur Fletcher had by no means recovered from the blow he had
received that day when Emily had told him everything down by the
river side; but then, it must be said of him, that he had no
intention of recovery. He was as a man who, having taken a
burden on his back, declares to himself that he will, for certain
reasons, carry it throughout his life. The man knows that with
the burden he cannot walk as men walk who are unencumbered, but
for those reasons of his he has chosen to lade himself, and
having done so he abandons regret and submits to his
circumstances. So had it been with him. He would make no
attempts to throw off the load. It was now far back in his life,
as much at least as three years, since he at first assured
himself of his desire to make Emily Wharton the companion of his
life. From that day she had been the pivot on which his whole
existence had moved. She had refused his offers more than once,
but had done so with so much tender kindness, that, though he had
found himself to be wounded and bruised, he had never abandoned
his object. Her father and all his own friends encouraged him.
He was continually told that her coldness was due to the simple
fact that she had not yet learned to give her heart away. And so
he had persevered, being ever thoroughly intent on his purpose,
till he was told by herself that her love was given to this other
man.
Then he knew that it behoved him to set some altered course of
life before him. He could not shoot his rival or knock him over
the head, nor could he carry off his girl, as used to be done in
rougher times. There was nothing now for a man in such a
catastrophe as this but submission. But he might submit and
shake off his burden, or submit and carry it hopelessly. He told
himself that he would do the latter. She had been his goddess,
and he would not now worship at another shrine. And then ideas
came into his head,--hot hopes, or purposes, or a belief even in
any possibility,--but vague ideas, mere castles in the air, that
a time might come in which it might be in his power to serve her,
and to prove to her beyond doubting what had been the nature of
his love. Like others of his family, he thought ill of Lopez,
believing the man to be an adventurer, one who would too probably
fall into misfortune, however high he might now seem to hold his
head. He was certainly a man not standing on the solid basis of
land, or of the Three Per Cents,--those solidities to which such
as the Whartons and the Fletchers are wont to trust. No doubt,
should there be such fall, the man's wife would have other help
than that of her rejected lover. She had a father, brother, and
cousins, who would also be there to aid her. The idea was,
therefore, but a castle in the air. And yet it was dear to him.
At any rate he resolved that he would live for it, and that the
woman should still be his goddess, though she was the wife of
another man, and might now perhaps never even be seen by him.
Then came upon him, immediately almost after their marriage, the
necessity of writing to her. The task was one which, of course,
he did not perform lightly.
He never said a word of this to anybody else;--but his brother
understood it all, and in a somewhat silent fashion fully
sympathized with him. John could not talk to him about love, or
mark passages of poetry for him to read, or deal with him at all
romantically; but he could take care that his brother had the
best horses to ride, and the warmest corner out shooting, and
that everything in the house could be done for his brother's
comfort. As the squire looked and spoke at Longbarns, others
looked and spoke,--so that everybody knew than Mr Arthur was to
be contradicted in nothing. Had he, just at this period, ordered
a tree in the park cut down, it would, I think, have been cut
down, without reference to the master! But, perhaps, John's
power was most felt in the way in which he repressed the
expressions of his mother's high indignation. 'Mean slut!' she
once said, speaking of Emily in her elder son's hearing. For the
girl, to her thinking, had been mean and had been a slut. She
had not known,--so Mrs Fletcher thought,--what birth and blood
required of her.
'Mother,' John Fletcher had said, 'you would break Arthur's heart
if he heard you speak of her in that way, and I am sure you would
drive him from Longbarns. Keep it to yourself.' The old woman
had shaken her head angrily, but she had endeavoured to do as she
had been bid.
'Isn't your brother riding that horse a little rashly?' Reginald
Cosgrave said to John Fletcher in the hunting field one day.
'I didn't observe,' said John; 'but whatever horse he's on he
always rides rashly.' Arthur was mounted on a long, raking
thorough-bred black animal, which he had bought himself about a
month ago, and which, having been run at steeplechase, rushed at
every fence as though he was going to swallow it. His brother
had begged him to put some rough-rider up till the horse could be
got to go quietly, but Arthur had persevered. And during the
whole of this day the squire had been in a tremor, lest there
should be some accident.
'He used to have a little more judgement, I think,' said
Cosgrave. 'He went at that double just now as hard as the brute
could tear. If the horse hadn't done it all, where would he have
been?'
'In the further ditch, I suppose. But you see the horse did it
all.'
This was all very well as an answer to Reginald Cosgrave,--to
whom it was not necessary that Fletcher should explain the
circumstances. But the squire had known as well as Cosgrave that
his brother had been riding rashly, and he had understood the
reason why. 'I don't think a man ought to break his neck,' he
said, 'because he can't get everything that he wishes.' The two
brothers were standing then together before the fire in the
squire's own room, having just come in from hunting.
'Who is going to break his neck?'
'They tell me you tried to-day.'
'Because I was riding a pulling horse. I'll back him to be the
biggest leaper and the quickest horse in Hertfordshire.'
'I dare say,--though for the matter of that the chances are very
much against it. But a man shouldn't ride so as to have those
things said of him.'
'What is a fellow to do if he can't ride a horse?'
'Get off him.'
'That's nonsense, John.'
'No, it's not. You know what I mean very well. If I were to
lose half my property tomorrow, don't you think it would cut me
up a good deal?'
'It would me, I know.'
'But what would you think of me if I howled about it?'
'Do I howl?' asked Arthur angrily.
'Every man howls who is driven out of is ordinary course by any
trouble. A man howls if he goes about frowning always.'
'Do I frown?'
'Or laughing.'
'Do I laugh?'
'Or galloping over the country like a mad devil who wants to get
rid of his debts by breaking his neck. Aeqam mememto--You
remember all that, don't you?'
'I remember it, but it isn't so easy to do, is it?'
'Try. There are other things to be done in life except getting
married. You are going into Parliament.'
'I don't know that.'
'Gresham tells me there isn't a doubt about it. Think of that.
Fix your mind upon it. Don't take it only as an accident, but as
the thing you're to live for. If you'll do that,--if you'll
manage that there shall be something to be done in Parliament
which only you can do, you won't ride a runaway horse as you did
that brute to-day.' Arthur looked up into his brother's face
almost weeping. 'We expect much of you, you know. I'm not a man
to do anything except be a good steward for the family property,
and keep the old house from falling down. You're a clever
fellow,--so that between us, if we both do our duty, the
Fletchers may still thrive in the land. My house shall be your
house, and my wife your wife, and my children your children. And
then the honour you win shall be my honour. Hold up your head,--
and sell the beast.' Arthur Fletcher squeezed his brother's hand
and went away to dress.
CHAPTER 34
THE SILVERBRIDGE ELECTION.
About a month after this affair with the runaway horse Arthur
Fletcher went to Greshambury, preparatory to his final sojourn at
Silverbridge for the week previous to the election. Greshambury,
the seat of Francis Gresham, Esq., who was a great man in these
parts, was about twenty miles from Silverbridge, and the tedious
work of canvassing the electors could not therefore be done from
thence;--but he spent a couple of pleasant days with his old
friend, and learned what was being said and what was being done
in and about the borough. Mr Gresham was a man, not as yet quite
forty years of age, very popular, with a large family, of great
wealth, and master of the county hounds. His father had been an
embarrassed man, with a large estate, but this Gresham had
married a lady with immense wealth, and had prospered in the
world. He was not an active politician. He did not himself care
for Parliament, or for the good things which political power can
give, and was on this account averse to the Coalition. He
thought that Sir Orlando Drought and the others were touching
pitch and had defiled themselves. But he was conscious that in
so thinking he was one of but a small minority. And, bad as the
world around him certainly was, terrible as had been the fall of
the glory of old England, he was nevertheless content to live
without loud grumbling as long as the farmers paid him their
wages, and the land when sold would fetch thirty years' purchase.
He had not therefore been careful to ascertain that Arthur
Fletcher would pledge himself to oppose the Coalition before he
proffered his assistance in this matter of the borough. It would
not be easy to find such a candidate, or perhaps possible to
bring him in when found. The Fletchers had always been good
Conservatives, and were proper people to be in Parliament. A
Conservative in Parliament is, of course, obliged to promote a
great many things which he does not really approve. Mr Gresham
quite understood that. You can't have tests and qualifications,
rotten boroughs and the divine right of kings, back again. But
as the glorious institutions of the country are made to perish,
one after the other, it is better that they should receive the
coup de grace tenderly from loving hands than be roughly
throttled by the Radicals. Mr Gresham would thank his stars that
he could still preserve foxes down in his own country, instead of
doing any of this dirty work,--for let the best be made of such
work, still it was dirty,--and was willing, now as always, to
give his assistance, and if necessary to spend a little money, to
put a Fletcher into Parliament and to keep a Lopez out.
There was to be a third candidate. That was the first news that
Fletcher heard. 'It will do us all the good in the world,' said
Mr Gresham. 'The rads in the borough are not satisfied with Mr
Lopez. They say they don't know him. As long as a certain set
could make it be believed that he was the Duke's nominee they
were content to accept him--even though he was not proposed
directly by the Duke's people in the usual way. But the Duke has
made himself understood at last. You have seen the Duke's
letter?' Arthur had not seen the Duke's letter, which had only
been published in the "Silverbridge Gazette" of that week, and he
read it, sitting in Mr Gresham's magistrate's-room, as a certain
chamber in the house had been called since the days of the
present squire's great-grandfather.
The Duke's letter was addressed to his recognized man of business
in those parts, and was as follows:
Carlton Terrace,--March, 187-
MY DEAR MR MORETON
(Mr Moreton was the successor of one Mr Fothergill, who had
reigned supreme in those parts under the old Duke.)
I am afraid that my wishes with regard to the borough and
the forthcoming election there of a member of Parliament
are not yet clearly understood, although I endeavoured to
declare them when I was at Gatherum Castle. I trust that
no elector will vote for this or that gentleman with an
idea that the return of any special candidate will please
me. The ballot will of course prevent me or any other
man from knowing how an elector may vote;--but I beg to
assure the electors generally that should they think fit
to return a member pledged to oppose the Government of
which I form part, it would not in any way change my
cordial feelings towards the town. I may perhaps be
allowed to add that, in my opinion, no elector can do his
duty except by voting for the candidate whom he thinks
best qualified to serve the country. In regard to the
gentlemen who are now before the constituency, I have no
feeling for one rather than for the other; and had I any
such feeling I should not wish it to actuate the vote of
a single elector. I should be glad if this letter could
be published so as to be brought under the eyes of the
electors generally.
Yours faithfully,
OMNIUM
When the Duke said that he feared that his wishes were not
understood, and spoke of the inefficacy of his former
declaration, he was alluding of course to the Duchess and to Mr
Sprugeon. Mr Sprugeon guessed that it might be so, and, still
wishing to have the Duchess for his good friend, was at once
assiduous in explaining to his friends in the borough that even
this letter did not mean anything. A Prime Minister was bound to
say that kind of thing! But the borough, if it wished to please
the Duke, must return Lopez in spite of the Duke's letter. Such
was Mr Sprugeon's doctrine. But he did not carry Mr Sprout with
him. Mr Sprout at once saw his opportunity, and suggested to Mr
Du Boung, the local brewer, that he should come forward. Du
Boung was a man rapidly growing into provincial eminence, and
jumped at the offer. Consequently there were three candidates.
Du Boung came forward as a Conservative prepared to give a
cautious, but very cautious, support to the Coalition. Mr Du
Boung in his printed address said very sweet things of the Duke
generally. The borough was blessed by the vicinity of the Duke.
But, looking at the present perhaps unprecedented crisis in
affairs, Mr Du Boung was prepared to give no more than a very
cautious support to the Duke's Government. Arthur Fletcher read
Mr Du Boung's address immediately after the Duke's letter.
'The more the merrier,' said Arthur.
'Just so. Du Boung will not rob you of a vote, but he will cut
the ground altogether from under the other man's feet. You see
that as far as the actual political programme goes there isn't
much to choose between any of you. You are all Government men.'
'With a difference.'
'One man in these days is so like another,' continued Gresham
sarcastically, 'that it requires eyes to meet the shades of the
colours.'
'Then you had better support Du Boung,' said Arthur.
'I think you've just a turn in your favour. Besides I couldn't
really carry a vote myself. As for Du Boung, I'd sooner have him
than a foreign cad like Lopez.' Then Arthur frowned and Mr
Gresham became confused, remembering the catastrophe about the
young lady whose story he had heard. 'Du Boung used to be plain
English as Bung before he got rich and made his name beautiful,'
continued Gresham, 'but I suppose Mr Lopez does come of foreign
extraction.'
'I don't know what he comes from,' said Arthur moodily. 'They
tell me he's a gentleman. However, as we are to have a contest,
I hope he mayn't win.'
'Of course you do. And he shan't win. Nor shall the great Du
Boung. You shall win, and become Prime Minister, and make me a
peer. Would you like papa to be Lord Greshambury?' he said to a
little girl, who then rushed into the room.
'No, I wouldn't. I'd like my papa to give me the pony which the
man wants to sell out in the yard.'
'She's quite right, Fletcher,' said the squire, 'I'm much more
likely to be able to buy them ponies as simple Frank Gresham than
I should be if I had a lord's coronet to pay for.'
This was on a Saturday, and on the following Monday Mr Gresham
drove the candidate over to Silverbridge and started him on his
work of canvassing. Mr Du Boung had been busy ever since Mr
Sprout's brilliant suggestion had been made, and Lopez had been
in the field even before him. Each one of the candidates called
at the house of every elector in the borough,--and every man in
the borough was an elector. When they had been at work for four
or five days each candidate assured the borough that he had
already received promises of votes sufficient to insure his
success, and each candidate was as anxious as ever,--nay was
more rabidly anxious than ever,--to secure the promise of a
single vote. Hints were made by honest citizens of the pleasure
they would have in supporting this or that gentleman,--for the
honest citizens assured one gentleman after the other of the
satisfaction they had in seeing so all-sufficient a candidate in
the borough,--if the smallest pecuniary help were given them,
even a day's pay, so that their poor children might not be
injured by their going to the poll. But the candidates and their
agents were stern in their replies to such temptations. 'That's
a dodge of the rascal Sprout,' said Sprugeon to Mr Lopez.
'That's one of Sprout's men. If he could get half-a-crown from
you it would be all up with us.' But tough Sprugeon called
Sprout a rascal, he laid it in the same bait both for Du Boung
and for Fletcher;--but laid it in vain. Everybody said that it
was a very clean election. 'A brewer standing, and the devil a
glass of beer!' said one old elector who had remembered better
things when the borough never heard of a contest.
On the third day of his canvass Arthur Fletcher with his gang of
agents and followers behind him met Lopez with his gang in the
street. It was probable that they would so meet, and Fletcher
had resolved what he would do when such a meeting took place. He
walked up to Lopez, and with a kindly smile offered his hand.
The two men, though they had never been intimate, had known each
other, and Fletcher was determined to show that he would not
quarrel with a man because that man had been his favoured rival.
In comparison with that other matter this affair of the
candidature was of course trivial. But Lopez who had, as the
reader may remember, made some threat about a horsewhip, had come
to a resolution of a very different nature. He put his arms
akimbo, resting his hands on his hips, and altogether declined to
proffered civility. 'You had better walk on,' he said, and then
stood, scowling, on the spot till the other should pass by.
Fletcher looked at him for a moment, then bowed and passed on.
At least a dozen men saw what had taken place, and were aware
that Mr Lopez had expressed his determination to quarrel
personally with Mr Fletcher, in opposition to Mr Fletcher's
expressed wish for amity. And before they had gone to bed that
night all the dozen knew the reason why. Of course there was
someone at Silverbridge clever enough to find out that Arthur
Fletcher had been in love with Miss Wharton, but that Miss
Wharton had lately been married to Mr Lopez. No doubt the
incident added a pleasurable emotion to the excitement caused by
the election at Silverbridge generally. A personal quarrel is
attractive everywhere. The expectation of such an occurrence
will bring together the whole House of Commons. And of course
this quarrel was very attractive at Silverbridge. There were
some Fletcherites and Lopezites in the quarrel; as there were
able Du Boungites, who maintained that when gentlemen could not
canvass without quarrelling in the streets they were manifestly
unfit to represent such a borough as Silverbridge in Parliament;
--and that therefore Mr Du Boung should be returned.
Mr Gresham was in the town that day, though not till after the
occurrence, and Fletcher could not avoid speaking of it. 'The
man must be a cur,' said Gresham.
'It would make no difference in the world to me,' said Arthur,
struggling hard to prevent signs of emotion from showing
themselves in his face, 'were it not that he has married a lady
whom I have long known and whom I greatly esteem.' He felt that
he could hardly avoid all mention of the marriage, and yet he was
determined that he would say no word that his brother would call
'howling'.
'There has been no previous quarrel, or offence?' asked Gresham.
'None in the least.' When Arthur so spoke he forgot altogether
the letter he had written; nor, had he then remembered it, would
he have thought it possible that that letter should have given
offence. He had been the sufferer, not Lopez. This man had
robbed him of his happiness; and, though it would have been
foolish in him to make a quarrel for a grievance such as that,
there might have been some excuse had he done so. It had taken
him some time to perceive that greatly as this man had injured
him, there had been no injustice done to him, and that therefore
there should be no complaint made by him. But that this other
man should complain was to him unintelligible.
'He is not worth your notice,' said Mr Gresham. 'He is simply
not a gentleman, and does not know how to behave himself. I am
very sorry for the young lady;--that's all.' At this allusion
to Emily Arthur felt his face become red with rising blood; and
he felt also that his friend should not have spoken thus openly,
--this irreverently,--on so sacred a subject. But at the moment
he said nothing further. As far as his canvass was concerned it
had been successful, and he was beginning to feel sure that he
would be the new member. He endeavoured therefore to drown his
sorrow in this coming triumph.
But Lopez had been by no means gratified with his canvass or with
the conduct of the borough generally. He had already begun to
feel that the Duchess and Mr Sprugeon and the borough had thrown
him over shamefully. Immediately on his arrival in Silverbridge
a local attorney had with the blandest possible smile asked him
for a cheque for 500 pounds. Of course there must be money spent
at once, and of course the money must come out of the candidate's
pocket. He had known all this beforehand, and yet the demand for
the money had come upon him as an injury. He gave the cheque,
but showed clearly by his manner that he resented the
application. This did not tend to bind him more closely to the
services of those who were present when the demand was made. And
then, as he began his canvass, he found that he could not conjure
at all with the name of the Duke, or even with that of the
Duchess; and was told on the second day by Mr Sprugeon himself
that he had better fight the battle 'on his own hook'. Now his
own hook in Silverbridge was certainly not a strong hook. Mr
Sprugeon was still of the opinion that a good deal might be done
by judicious manipulation, and went so far as to suggest that
another cheque for 500 pounds in the hands of Mr Wise, the
lawyer, would be effective. But Lopez did not give the other
cheque, and Sprugeon whispered to him that the Duke had been too
many for the Duchess. Still he had persevered, and a set of
understrappers around him, who would make nothing out of the
election without his candidature, assured him from time to time
that he would even as yet come out all right at the ballot.
But, on the morning of the day on which he met Fletcher in the
street, Mr Du Boung had called upon him accompanied by two of the
Du Boung agents and by Mr Sprugeon himself,--and had suggested
that he, Lopez, should withdraw from the contest, so that Du
Boung might be returned, and that the 'liberal interests' of the
borough might not be sacrificed.
This was a heavy blow, and one which Ferdinand Lopez was not the
man to bear with equanimity. From the moment in which the
Duchess had mentioned the borough to him, he had regarded the
thing as certain. After a while he had understood that his return
must be accompanied by more trouble and greater expense than he
had at first anticipated;--but still he had thought that it was
all but sure. He had altogether misunderstood the nature of the
influence exercised by the Duchess, and the nature also of the
Duke's resolution. Mr Sprugeon had of course wished to have a
candidate, and had allured him. Perhaps he had in some degree
been ill-treated by the borough. But he was a man, whom the
feeling of injustice to himself would drive him almost to frenzy,
though he never measured the amount of his own injustice to
others. When the proposition was made to him, he scowled at them
all, and declared that he would fight the borough to the last.
'Then you'll let Mr Fletcher in to a certainty.'said Mr Sprout.
Now there was an idea in the borough that, although all the
candidates were ready to support the Duke's government, Mr Du
Boung and Mr Lopez were the two Liberals. Mr Du Boung was
sitting in the room when the appeal was made, and declared that
he feared that such would be the result. 'I'll tell you what
I'll do,' said Lopez. 'I'll toss up which of us retires.' Mr
Sprout, on behalf of Mr Du Boung, protested against that
proposition. Mr Du Boung, who was a gentleman of great local
influence, was in possession of four-fifths of the liberal
interests in the borough. Even were he to retire, Mr Lopez could
not get in. Mr Sprout declared that this was known to all the
borough at large. He, Sprout, was sorry that a gentleman like Mr
Lopez should have been brought down there under false ideas. He
had all through told Mr Sprugeon that the Duke had been in
earnest, but Mr Sprugeon had not comprehended the position. It
had been a pity. But anybody who understood the borough could
see with one eye that Mr Lopez had not a chance. If Mr Lopez
would retire Mr Du Boung would no doubt be returned. If Mr Lopez
went to the poll, Mr Fletcher would probably be the new member.
This was the picture as it was painted by Mr Sprout,--who had,
even then, heard something of the loves of the two candidates, and
who had thought that Lopez would be glad to injure Arthur
Fletcher's chances of success. So far he was not wrong;--but
the sense of injury done to himself oppressed Lopez so much that
he could not guide himself by reason. The idea of retiring was
very painful to him, and he did not believe these men. He
thought it to be quite possible that they were there to
facilitate the return of Arthur Fletcher. He had never even
heard of Du Boung till he had come to Silverbridge two or three
days ago. He still could not believe that Du Boung would be
returned. He thought over it all for a moment, and then he gave
his answer. 'I've been brought down here to fight, and I'll
fight it to the last,' he said. 'Then you'll hand over the
borough to Mr Fletcher,' said Sprout, getting up and ushering Mr
Du Boung out of the room.
It was after that, but on the same day, that Lopez and Fletcher
met each other in the street. The affair did not take a minute,
and then they parted, each on his own way. In the course of the
evening Mr Sprugeon told his candidate that he, Sprugeon, could
not concern himself any further in that election. He was very
sorry for what had occurred,--very sorry indeed. It was no
doubt a pity that the Duke had been so firm. 'But,'--and Mr
Sprugeon shrugged his shoulders as he spoke,--'when a nobleman
like the Duke chooses to have a way of his own, he must have it.'
Mr Sprugeon went on to declare that any further candidature would
be a waste of money, waste of time, and waste of energy, and then
signified his intention of retiring, as far as the election went,
into private life. When asked, he acknowledged that they who had
been acting with him had come to the same resolve. Mr Lopez had
in fact come there as the Duke's nominee, and as the Duke had no
nominee, Mr Lopez was in fact 'nowhere'.
'I don't suppose that any man was ever so treated before, since
members were first returned to Parliament,' said Lopez.
'Well, sir;--yes, sir; it is a little hard. But, you see, sir,
her Grace meant the best. Her Grace did mean the best, no doubt.
It may be, sir, there was a little misunderstanding;--a little
misunderstanding at the Castle, sir.' Then Mr Sprugeon retired,
and Lopez understood that he was to see nothing more of the
ironmonger.
Of course there was nothing for him now but to retire;--to shake
the dust off his feet and get out of Silverbridge as quickly as
he could. But his friends had all deserted him and he did not
know how to retire. He had paid 500 pounds, and he had a strong
opinion that a portion at least of the money should be returned
to him. He had a keen sense of ill-usage, and at the same time a
feeling that he ought not to run out of the borough like a whipt
dog, without showing his face to any one. But his strongest
suspicion at this moment was one of hatred against Arthur
Fletcher. He was sure that Arthur Fletcher would be the new
member. He did not put the least trust in Mr Du Boung. He had
taught himself really to think that Fletcher had insulted him by
writing to his wife, and that a further insult had been offered
to him at that meeting in the street. He had told his wife that
he would ask Fletcher to give up the borough, and that he would
make the request with a horsewhip in his hand. It was too late
now to say anything of the borough, but it might not be too late
for the horsewhip. He had a great desire to make good that
threat as far as the horsewhip was concerned,--having an idea
that he would thus lower Fletcher in his wife's eyes. It was not
that he was jealous,--not jealous in the ordinary meaning of the
word. His wife's love to himself had been too recently given and
too warmly maintained for such a feeling as that. But there was
a rancorous hatred in his heart against the man, and a conviction
that his wife at any rate esteemed a man whom he hated. And then
would he not make his retreat from the borough with more honour
if before he left he could horsewhip his successful antagonist?
We, who know the feeling of Englishmen generally better than Mr
Lopez did, would say--certainly not. We would think that such
an incident would by no means redound to the credit of Mr Lopez.
And he himself, probably, at cooler moments, would have seen the
folly of such an idea. But anger about the borough had driven
him mad, and now in his wretchedness the suggestion had for him a
certain charm. The man had outraged all propriety by writing to
his wife. Of course he would be justified in horsewhipping him.
But there were difficulties. A man is not horsewhipped simply
because you wish to horsewhip him.
In the evening, as he was sitting alone, he got a note from Mr
Sprugeon. 'Mr Sprugeon's compliments. Doesn't Mr Lopez think an
address to the electors should appear in tomorrow's "Gazette",--
very short and easy;--something like the following.' Then Mr
Sprugeon added a very 'short and easy letter' to the electors of
the borough of Silverbridge, in which Mr Lopez was supposed to
tell them that although his canvass had promised him every
success, he felt that he owed it to the borough to retire, lest
he should injure the borough by splitting the Liberal interest
with their much respected fellow-townsman, Mr Du Boung. In the
course of the evening he did copy that letter, and sent it out to
the newspaper office. He must retire, and it was better for him
that he should retire after some recognized fashion. But he
wrote another letter also, and sent it over to the opposition
hotel. The other letter was as follows:
SIR
Before this election began you were guilty of gross
impertinence in writing a letter to my wife,--to her
extreme annoyance and to my most justifiable anger. Any
gentleman would think that the treatment you had already
received at her hands would have served to save her from
such insult, but there are men who will never take a
lesson without a beating. And now, since you have been
here, you have presumed to offer to shake hands with me
in the street, though you ought to have known that I
should not choose to meet you on friendly terms after
what has taken place. I now write to tell you that I
shall carry a horsewhip while I am here, and that if I
meet you in the streets again before I leave the town I
shall use it.
FERDINAND LOPEZ
Mr Arthur Fletcher.
This letter he sent at once to his enemy, and then sat late into
the night thinking of the threat and the manner in which he would
follow it up. If he could only get one fair blow at Fletcher his
purpose, he thought, would be achieved. In any matter of
horsewhipping the truth hardly ever gets itself correctly known.
The man who has given the first blow, is generally supposed to
have thrashed the other. What might follow, though it might be
inconvenient, must be borne. The man had insulted him by writing
to his wife, and the sympathies of the world, he thought, would
be with him. To give him his due, it must be owned that he had
no personal fear as to the encounter.
That night Arthur Fletcher had gone over the Greshambury, and on
the following morning he returned with Mr Gresham. 'For heaven's
sake, look at that!' he said, handing the letter to his friend.
'Did you ever write to his wife?' asked Gresham, when he read it.
'Yes,--I did. All this is dreadful to me:--dreadful. Well;--
you know how it used to be with me. I need not go into all that,
need I?'
'Don't say a word more than you think necessary.'
'When you asked me to stand for the place I had not heard that he
thought of being a candidate. I wrote and told her so, and told
her also that had I known it before I would not have come here.'
'I don't quite see that,' said Gresham.
'Perhaps not;--perhaps I was a fool. But we needn't go into
that. At any rate there was no insult to him. I wrote in the
simplest language.'
'Looking at it all round I think you had better not have
written.'
'You wouldn't say so if you saw the letter. I'm sure you
wouldn't. I had known her all my life. My brother is married to
her cousin. Oh heavens! we had been all but engaged. I would
have done anything for her. Was it not natural that I should
tell her? As far as the language was concerned the letter was
one to be read at Charing Cross.'
'He says that she was annoyed and insulted.'
'Impossible! It was a letter that any man might have written to
any woman.'
'Well;--you have got to take care of yourself at any rate. What
will you do?'
'What ought I to do?'
'Go to the police.' Mr Gresham had himself once, when young,
thrashed a man who had offended him, and had then thought himself
much aggrieved because the police had been called in. But that
had been twenty years ago, and Mr Gresham's opinions had been
matured and, perhaps, corrected by age.
'No; I won't do that,' said Arthur Fletcher.
'That's what you ought to do.'
'I couldn't do that.'
'Then take no notice of the letter, and carry a fairly big stick.
It should be big enough to hurt him a good deal, but not to do
him any serious damage.' At that moment an agent came in with
the news of the man's retirement from the contest. 'Has he left
the town?' asked Gresham. No;--he had not left the town, nor
had he been seen by any one that morning. 'You had better let me
go out and get the stick, before you show yourself,' said
Gresham. And so the stick was selected.
As the two walked down the street together, almost the first
thing they saw was Lopez standing at his hotel door with a
cutting whip in his hand. He was at that moment quite alone, but
on the opposite side of the street was a policeman,--one of the
borough constables,--very slowly making his way along the
pavement. His movement, indeed, was so slow that anyone watching
him would have come to the conclusion that that particular part
of the High Street had some attraction for him at that special
moment. Alas, alas! How age will alter the spirit of a man!
Twenty years since Frank Gresham would have thought any one to be
a mean miscreant who would have interposed a policeman between
him and his foe. But it is to be feared that while selecting
that stick he had said a word which was causing the constable to
loiter on the pavement!
'Do you usually walk around attended by a policeman?' said Lopez.
'I didn't know that the man was here,' said Fletcher.
'You may tell that to the marines. All the borough shall know
what a coward you are.' Then he turned round and addressed the
street, but still under the shadow, as it were, of the
policeman's helmet. 'This man who presumes to offer himself as a
candidate to represent Silverbridge in Parliament has insulted my
wife. And now, because he fears that I shall horsewhip him, he
goes about the street under the care of a policeman.'
'This is intolerable,' said Fletcher, turning to his friend.
'Mr Lopez,' said Gresham. 'I am sorry to say that I must give
you in charge;--unless you will undertake to leave the town
without interfering further with Mr Fletcher, either by word or
deed.'
'I will undertake nothing,' said Lopez. 'The man has insulted my
wife, and is a coward.'
About two o'clock on the afternoon of that day Mr Lopez appeared
before the Silverbridge bench of magistrates, and was there sworn
to keep the peace to Mr Fletcher for the next six months. After
that he was allowed to leave the town, and was back in London
with his wife in Belgrave Mansions, to dinner that evening.
On the day but one after this the ballot was taken and at eight
o'clock on the evening of that day Arthur Fletcher was declared
to be duly elected. But Mr Du Boung ran him very hard.
The numbers were--
FLETCHER . . . . . . .315
DU BOUNG . . . . . . .308
Mr Du Boung's friends during these last two days had not
hesitated to make what use they could on behalf of their own
candidate of the Lopez and Fletcher quarrel. If Mr Fletcher had
insulted he other man's wife, surely he could not be a proper
member for Silverbridge. And then the row was declared to have
been altogether discreditable. Two strangers had come into this
peaceful town and had absolutely quarrelled with sticks and whips
in the street, calling each other opprobrious names. Would it
not be better that they should elect their own respectable
townsman? All this was nearly effective. But, in spite of all,
Arthur Fletcher was at last returned.
CHAPTER 35
LOPEZ BACK IN LONDON.
Lopez, as he returned to town, recovered something of his senses,
though he still fancied that Arthur Fletcher had done him a
positive injury by writing to his wife. But something of that
madness left him which had come from a deep sense of injury, both
as to the letter and as to the borough, and he began to feel that
he had been wrong about the horsewhip. He was very low in
spirits on this return journey. The money which he had spent
had been material to him, and the loss of it for the moment left
him nearly bare. While he had before his eyes the hope of being
a member of Parliament he had been able to buoy himself up. The
position itself would have gone very far with Sexty Parker, and
would, he thought, have had some effect even with his father-in-
law. But now he was returning a beaten man. Who is there that
has not felt that fall from high hope to utter despair which
comes from some single failure? As he thought of this he was
conscious that his anger had led him into great imprudence at
Silverbridge. He had not been circumspect, as it specially
behoved a man to be surrounded by such difficulties as his. All
his life he had been schooling his temper so as to keep it under
control,--sometimes with great difficulty, but always with a
consciousness that in his life everything might depend on it. Now
he had, alas, allowed it to get the better of him. No doubt he
had been insulted,--but, nevertheless, he had been wrong to
speak of a horsewhip.
His one great object must now be to conciliate his father-in-law,
and he had certainly increased his difficulty in doing this by
his squabble down at Silverbridge. Of course the whole thing
would be reported in the London papers, and of course the story
would be told against him, as the respectabilities of the town
had been opposed to him. But he knew himself to be clever, and
he still hoped that he might overcome these difficulties. Then
it occurred to him that in doing this he must take care to have
his wife entirely on his side. He did not doubt her love; he did
not in the least doubt her rectitude--but there was that
lamentable fact that she thought well of Arthur Fletcher. It
might be that he had been a little too imperious with his wife.
It suited his disposition to be imperious within his own
household;--to be imperious out of it, if that were possible;--
but he was conscious of having had a fall at Silverbridge, and he
must for a while take in some sail.
He had telegraphed to her, acquainting her with his defeat, and
telling her to expect his return. 'Oh, Ferdinand,' she said, 'I
am so unhappy about this. It has made me so wretched!'
'Better luck next time,' he said with his sweetest smile. 'It is
not good groaning over spilt milk. They haven't treated me
really well,--have they?'
'I suppose not,--though I do not quite understand it all.'
He was burning to abuse Arthur Fletcher, but he abstained. He
would abstain at any rate for the present moment. 'Dukes and
duchesses are no doubt very grand people,' he said, 'but it is a
pity they should not know now to behave honestly, as they expect
others to behave to them. The Duchess has thrown me over in the
most infernal way. I really can't understand it. When I think
of it I am in wonder. The truth, I suppose, is, that there has
been some quarrel between him and her.'
'Who will get in?'
'Oh Du Boung, no doubt.' He did not think so, but he could not
bring himself to declare the success of his enemy to her. 'The
people there know him. Your old friend is as much a stranger
there as I am. By-the-way, he and I had a little row in the
place.'
'A row, Ferdinand?'
'You needn't look like that, my pet. I haven't killed him. But
he came up to speak to me in the street, and I told him what I
thought about his writing to you.' On hearing this Emily looked
very wretched. 'I could not restrain myself from doing that.
Come,--you must admit that he shouldn't have written.'
'He meant it in kindness.'
'Then he shouldn't have meant it. Just think of it. Suppose
that I had making up to any girl,--which by-the-way I never did
but to one in my life,'--then he put his arm round her waist and
kissed her, 'and she were to have married someone else. What
would have been said of me if I had begun to correspond with her
immediately? Don't suppose I am blaming you, dear.'
'Certainly I do not suppose that,' said Emily.
'But you must admit that it was rather strong.' He paused, but
she said nothing. 'Only I suppose you can bring yourself to
admit nothing against him. However, so it was. There was a row,
and a policeman came up, and they made me give a promise that I
didn't mean to shoot him or anything of that kind.' As she heard
this she turned pale, but said nothing. 'Of course I didn't want
to shoot him. I wished him to know what I thought about it, and
I told him. I hate to trouble you with all this, but I couldn't
bear that you shouldn't know it all.'
'It is very sad!'
'Sad enough! I have had plenty to bear I can tell you.
Everybody seemed to turn away from me there. Everybody deserted
me.' As he said this he could perceive that he must obtain her
sympathy by recounting his own miseries and not Arthur Fletcher's
sins. 'I was all alone and hardly knew how to hold up my head
against so much wretchedness. And then I found myself called
upon to pay an enormous sum for my expenses.'
'Oh, Ferdinand!'
'Think of their demanding 500 pounds!'
'Did you pay it?'
'Yes, indeed. I had no alternative. Of course they took care to
come for that before they talked of my resigning. I believe it
was all planned beforehand. The whole thing seems to me to have
been a swindle from beginning to end. By heaven, I'm almost
inclined to think that the Duchess knew all about it herself!'
'About the 500 pounds!'
'Perhaps not the exact sum, but the way in which the thing was to
be done. In these days one doesn't know whom to trust. Men, and
women too, have become so dishonest that nobody is safe anywhere.
It has been awfully hard upon me,--awfully hard. I don't
suppose that there was ever a moment in my life when the loss of
500 pounds would have been so much to me as it is now. The
question is, what will your father do for us?' Emily could not
but remember her husband's intense desire to obtain money from
her father not yet three months since, as though all the world
depended on his getting it,--and his subsequent elation as
though all his sorrows were over for ever, because the money had
been promised. And now,--almost immediately,--he was again in
the same position. She endeavoured to judge him kindly, but a
feeling of insecurity in reference to his affairs struck her at
once and made her heart cold. Everything had been achieved, then,
by a gift of 3,000 pounds,--surely a small sum to effect such a
result with a man living as her husband lived. And now the whole
3,000 pounds was gone;--surely a large sum to have vanished in
so short a time! Something of the uncertainty of business she
could understand, but a business must be perilously uncertain if
subject to such vicissitudes as these! But as ideas of this
nature crowded themselves into her mind she told herself again
and again that she had taken him for better and for worse. If
the worse were already coming, she would still be true to her
promise. 'You had better tell papa everything.'
'Had it not better come from you?'
'No, Ferdinand. Of course I will do as you bid me. I will do
anything that I can do. But you had better tell him. His nature
is such that he will respect you more if it come from yourself.
And then it is so necessary that he should know all;--all.' She
put whatever emphasis she knew how to use upon this word.
'You could tell him--all, as well as I.'
'You would not bring yourself to tell it to me, nor could I
understand it. He will understand everything, and if he thinks
that you have told him everything, he will at any rate respect
you.'
He sat silent for a while meditating, feeling always more and
more acutely that he had been ill-used,--never thinking for an
instant that he had ill-used others. '3,000 pounds, you know,
was no fortune for your father to give you!' She had no answer
to make, but she groaned in spirit as she heard the accusation.
'Don't you feel that yourself?'
'I know nothing of money, Ferdinand. If you had told me to speak
to him about it before we were married, I would have done so.'
'He ought to have spoken to me. It is marvellous how close-
fisted an old man can be. He can't take it with him.' Then he
sat for half an hour in moody silence, during which she was busy
with her needle. After that he jumped up, with a manner
altogether altered,--gay, only that the attempt was too visible
to deceive even her,--and shook himself, as though he were
ridding himself of his trouble. 'You are right, old girl. You
are always right,--almost. I will go to your father to-morrow,
and tell him everything. It isn't so very much that I want him
to do. Things will all come right again. I'm ashamed that you
should have seen me in this way,--but I have been disappointed
about the election, and troubled about that Mr Fletcher. You
shall not see me give way again like this. Give me a kiss, old
girl.'
She kissed him, but she could not even pretend to recover her
self as he had done. 'Had we not better give up the brougham?'
she said.
'Certainly not. For heaven's sake do not speak in that way! You
do not understand things.'
'No; certainly I do not.'
'It isn't that I haven't the means of living, but that my
business money is so often required for instant use. And
situated as I am at the present an addition to my capital would
enable me to do so much!' She certainly did not understand it,
but she had sufficient knowledge of the world and sufficient
common sense to be aware that their present rate of expenditure
ought to be a matter of importance to a man who felt the loss of
500 pounds as he felt that loss at Silverbridge.
On the next morning Lopez was at Mr Wharton's chambers early,--
so early that the lawyer had not yet reached them. He had
resolved,--not that he would tell everything, for such men never
even intend to tell everything,--but that he would tell a good deal.
He must, if possible, affect the mind of the old man in two ways.
He must ingratiate himself;--and at the same time make it
understood that Emily's comfort in life would depend very much on
her father's generosity. The first must be first accomplished,
if possible,--and then the second, as to which he could certainly
produce at any rate belief. He had not married a rich man's daughter
without an intention of getting the rich man's money! Mr Wharton
would understand that. If the worst came to the worst, Mr
Wharton must of course maintain his daughter,--and his
daughter's husband! But things had not come to the worst as yet,
and he did not intend on the present occasion to present that
view of his affairs to his father-in-law.
Mr Wharton when he entered his chambers found Lopez seated there.
He was himself at this moment very unhappy. He had renewed his
quarrel with Everett,--or Everett rather had renewed the quarrel
with him. There had been words between them about money lost at
cards. Hard words had been used, and Everett had told his father
that if either of them were a gambler it was not he. Mr Wharton
had resented this bitterly and had driven his son from his
presence,--and now the quarrel with him had made him very
wretched. He certainly was sorry that he had called his son a
gambler, but his son had been, as he thought, inexcusable in the
retort which he had made. He was a man to whom his friends gave
credit for much sternness;--but still he was one who certainly
had no happiness in the world independent of his children. His
daughter had left him, not as he thought under happy auspices,--
and he was now, at this moment, soft-hearted and tender in his
regards as to her. What was there in the world for him but his
children? And now he felt himself to be alone and destitute. He
was already tired of whist at the Eldon. That which would have
been a delight to him once or twice a week, became almost
loathsome when it was renewed from day to day;--and not the less
when his son told him that he also was a gambler. 'So you have
come back from Silverbridge?' he said.
'Yes, sir; I have come back not exactly triumphant. A man should
not expect to win always.' Lopez had resolved to pluck up his
spirit and carry himself like a man.
'You seem to have got into some scrape down there, besides losing
your election.'
'Oh; you have seen that in the papers already. I have come to
tell you of it. As Emily is concerned in it you ought to know.'
'Emily concerned! How is she concerned?'
Then Lopez told the whole story,--after his own fashion, and yet
with no palpable lie. Fletcher had written to her a letter which
he had thought to be very offensive. On hearing this, Mr Wharton
looked very grave, and asked for the letter. Lopez said that he
had destroyed it, not thinking that such a document should be
preserved. Then he went on to explain that it had had reference
to the election, and that he had thought it to be highly improper
that Fletcher should write to his wife on that or on any other
subject. 'It depends very much on the letter,' said the old man.
'But on any subject,--after what has passed.'
'They were very old friends.'
'Of course I will not agree with you, Mr Wharton; but I own that
it angered me. It angered me very much,--very much indeed. I
took it to be an insult to her, and when he accosted me in the
street down at Silverbridge I told him so. I may not have been
very wise, but I did it on her behalf. Surely you can understand
that such a letter might make a man angry.'
'What did he say?'
'That he would do anything for her sake,--even retire from
Silverbridge if his friends would let him.' Mr Wharton scratched
his head, and Lopez saw that he was perplexed. 'Should he have
offered to do anything for her sake, after what has passed?'
'I know the man so well,' said Mr Wharton, 'that I cannot and do
not believe him to have harboured an improper thought in
reference to my child.'
'Perhaps it was an indiscretion only.'
'Perhaps so. I cannot say. And then they took you before the
magistrates?'
'Yes,--in my anger I had threatened him. Then there was a
policeman and a row. And I had to swear that I would not hurt
him. Of course I had no wish to hurt him.'
'I suppose it ruined your chance at Silverbridge?'
'I suppose it did.' This was a lie, as Lopez had retired before
the row took place. 'What I care for most now is that you should
think I have misbehaved myself.'
The story had been told very well, and Mr Wharton was almost
disposed to sympathize with his son-in-law. That Arthur Fletcher
had meant nothing that could be regarded as offensive to his
daughter he was quite sure;--but it might be that in making an
offer intended to be generous he had used language which the
condition of the persons concerned made indiscreet. 'I suppose,'
he said, 'that you spent a lot of money at Silverbridge?' This
gave Lopez the opening he wanted, and he described the manner in
which the 500 pounds had been extracted from him. 'You can't
play that game for nothing,' said Mr Wharton.
'And just at present I could ill afford it. I should not have
done it if I had not felt it a pity to neglect such a chance of
rising in the world. After all, a seat in the British House of
Commons is an honour.'
'Yes;--yes;--yes.'
'And the Duchess, when she spoke to me about it, was so certain.'
'I will pay the 500 pounds,' said Mr Wharton.
'Oh, sir, that is generous!' Then he got up and took the old
man's hands. 'Some day, when you are at liberty, I hope that you
will allow me to explain to you the exact state of my affairs.
When I wrote to you from Como I told you that I would wish to do
so. You do not object?'
'No,' said the lawyer,--but with infinite hesitation in his
voice. 'No, I don't object. But I do not know how I could serve
them. I shall be busy just now, but I will give you the cheque.
And if you and Emily have nothing better to do, come and dine to-
morrow.' Lopez with real tears in his eyes took the cheque, and
promised to come on the morrow. 'And in the meantime I wish you
would see Everett.' Of course he promised that he would see
Everett.
Again he was exalted, on this occasion not so much by the
acquisition of the money as by the growing conviction that his
father-in-law was a cow capable of being milked. And the quarrel
between Everett and his father might clearly be useful to him.
He might either serve the old man by reducing Everett to proper
submission, or he might manage to creep into the empty space
which his son's defection would make in the father's heart and
the father's life. He might at any rate make himself necessary
to the old man, and become such a part of the household in
Manchester Square as to be indispensable. Then the old man would
every day become older and more in want of assistance. He
thought that he saw the way to worm himself into confidence, and,
so on into possession. The old man was not a man of iron as he
had feared, but quite human, and if properly managed, soft and
malleable.
He saw Sexty Parker in the city that day, and used his cheque for
500 pounds in some triumphant way, partly cajoling and partly
bullying his poor victim. To Sexty also he had to tell his own
story about the row down at Silverbridge. He had threatened to
thrash the fellow in the street, and the fellow had not dared to
come out of his house without a policeman. Yes;--he had lost
his election. The swindling of those fellows at Silverbridge had
been too much for him. But he flattered himself that he had got
the better of Master Fletcher. That was the tone in which he
told the story to his friend in the city.
Then, before dinner, he found Everett at the club. Everett
Wharton was to be found there now almost every day. His excuse
to himself lay in the political character of the institution.
The club intended to do great things,--to find Liberal
candidates for all the boroughs and counties in England which had
not hitherto been furnished, and then to supply the candidates
with money. Such was the great purpose of the Progress. It had
not as yet sent out many candidates or collected much money. And
yet it was, politically, almost quiescent. And therefore Everett
Wharton, whose sense of duty took him there, spent his afternoons
either in the whist-room or at the billiard-table.
The story of Silverbridge had to be told yet again, and was told
nearly with the same incidents as had been narrated to the
father. He could of course abuse Arthur Fletcher more roundly,
and be more confident in the assertion that Fletcher had insulted
his wife. But he came as quickly as he could to the task which
he had on hand. 'What's all this between you and your father?'
'Simply this. I sometimes play a game of whist, and therefore he
called me a gambler. Then I reminded him that he also sometimes
played a game of whist, and I asked him what deduction was to be
drawn.'
'He is awfully angry with you.'
'Of course I was a fool. My father has the whip-hand of me,
because he has money and I have none, and it was simply kicking
against the pricks to speak as I did. And then too there isn't a
fellow in London has a higher respect for his father than I have,
not yet a warmer affection. But it is hard to be driven in that
way. Gambler is a nasty word.'
'Yes, it is very nasty. But I suppose a man does gamble when he
loses so much money that he has to ask his father to pay it for
him.'
'If he does so often, he gambles. I never asked him for money to
pay what I had lost before in my life.'
'I wonder you told him.'
'I never lie to him, and he ought to know that. But he is just
the man to be harder to his own son than to anybody else in the
world. What does he want me to do now?'
'I don't know that he wants you to do anything,' said Lopez.
'Did he send you to me?'
'Well;--no; I can't say that he did. I told him that I should
see you as a matter of course, and he said something rough,--
about your being an ass.'
'I dare say he did.'
'But if you ask me,' said Lopez, 'I think he would take it kindly
of you if you were to go and see him. Come and dine to-day, just
as if nothing had happened.'
'I could not do that,--unless he asked me.'
'I can't say that he asked you, Everett, I would say so, in spite
of its being a lie, if I didn't fear that your father might say
something unkind, so that the lie would be detected by both of
you.'
'And yet you ask me to go and dine there!'
'Yes, I do. It's only going away if he does cut up rough. And
if he takes it well,--why then,--the whole thing is done.'
'If he wants me, he can ask me.'
'You talk about it, my boy, just as if a father were the same as
anybody else. If I had a father with a lot of money, by George
he should knock me about with his stick if he liked, and I would
be just the same next day.'
'Unfortunately I am of a stiffer nature,' said Everett, taking
some pride to himself for his stiffness, and being perhaps as
little 'stiff' as any young man of his day.
That evening after dinner at Manchester Square, the conversation
between the father-in-law and the son-in-law turned almost
exclusively to the son and brother-in-law. Little or nothing was
said about the election, and the name of Arthur Fletcher was not
mentioned. But out of his full heart the father spoke. He was
wretched about Everett. Did Everett mean to cut him?
'He wants you to withdraw some name you called him,' said Lopez.
'Withdraw some name,--as he might ask some hot-headed fellow to
do, if his own age, like himself, some fellow that he had
quarrelled with! Does he expect his father to send him a written
apology? He had been gambling, and I told him that he was a
gambler. Is that too much for a father to say?' Lopez shrugged
his shoulders, and declared that it was a pity. 'He will break
my heart if he goes on like this,' said the old man.
'I asked him to come and dine to-day, but he didn't seem to like
it.'
'Like it! No. He likes nothing but that infernal club.'
When the evening was over Lopez felt that he had done a good
stroke of work. He had not exactly made up his mind to keep the
father and son apart. That was not a part of his strategy,--at
any rate as yet. But he did intend to make himself necessary to
the old man,--to become the old man's son, and if possible the
favourite son. And now he thought that he had already done much
towards the achievement of his object.
CHAPTER 36
THE JOLLY BLACKBIRD.
There was great triumph at Longbarns when the news of Arthur's
victory reached the place;--and when he arrived there himself
with his friend Mr Gresham, he was received as a conquering hero.
But of course the tidings of 'the row' had gone before him, and
it was necessary that both he and Mr Gresham should tell the
story;--nor could it be told privately. Sir Alured Wharton was
there, and Mrs Fletcher. The old lady had heard of the row, and
of course required to be told all the particulars. This was not
pleasant to the hero, as in talking of the man it was impossible
for them not to talk of the man's wife. 'What a terrible
misfortune for poor Mr Wharton,' said the old lady, nodding her
head at Sir Alured. Sir Alured sighed and said nothing.
Certainly a terrible misfortune, and one which affected more or
less the whole family of Whartons!
'Do you mean to say that he was going to attack Arthur with a
whip?' asked John Fletcher.
'I only know that he was standing there with a whip in his hand,'
said Mr Gresham.
'I think he would have had the worst of that.'
'You would have laughed,' said Arthur, 'to see me walking
majestically along the High Street with a cudgel which Gresham
had just bought for me as being of the proper medium size. I
don't doubt he meant to have a fight. And then you should have
seen the policeman sloping over and putting himself in the way.
I never quite understood where the policeman came from.'
'They are very well off for policemen in Silverbridge,' said
Gresham. 'They've always got them going about.'
'He must be mad,' said John.
'Poor unfortunate young woman!' said Mrs Fletcher, holding up
both her hands. 'I must say that I cannot but blame Mr Wharton.
If he had been firm, it never would have come to that. I wonder
whether he ever sees him.'
'Of course he does,' said John. 'Why shouldn't he see him?
You'd see him if he'd married a daughter of yours.'
'Never!' exclaimed the old woman. 'If I had a child so lost to
all respect as that, I do not say that I would not have seen her.
Human nature might have prevailed. But I would never willingly
have put myself into contact with one who had degraded me and
mine.'
'I shall be very anxious to know what Mr Wharton does about his
money,' said John.
Arthur allowed himself but a couple of days among his friends,
and then hurried up to London to take his seat. When there he
was astonished to find how many questions were asked him about
'the row', and how much was known about it,--and at the same
time how little was really known. Everybody had heard that there
had been a row, and everybody knew that there had been a lady in
the case. But there seemed to be a general idea that the lady
had been in some way misused, and that Arthur Fletcher had come
forwards like a Paladin to protect her. A letter had been
written, and the husband, ogre-like, had intercepted the letter.
The lady was the most unfortunate of human beings,--or would
have been but for that consolation which she must have in the
constancy of her old lover. As to all these matters the stories
varied; but everybody agreed on one point. All the world knew
that Arthur Fletcher had gone to Silverbridge, had stood for the
borough, and taken the seat away from his rival,--because that
rival had robbed him of his bride. How the robbery had been
effected the world could not quite say. The world was still of
the opinion that the lady was violently attached to the man she
had not married. But Captain Gunner explained it all clearly to
Major Pountney by asserting that the poor girl had been coerced
into the marriage by her father. And thus Arthur Fletcher found
himself almost as much a hero in London as at Longbarns.
Fletcher had not been above a week in town, and had become
heartily sick of the rumours which in various shapes made their
way round to his own ears, when he received an invitation from Mr
Wharton to go and dine with him at a tavern called the Jolly
Blackbird. The invitation surprised him,--that he should be
asked by such a man to dine at such a place,--but he accepted it
as a matter of course. He was indeed much interested in a bill
for the drainage of common lands which was to be discussed in the
House that night, there was a good deal of common land round
Silverbridge, and he had some idea of making his first speech,--
but he calculated that he might get his dinner and yet be back in
time for the debate. So he went to the Jolly Blackbird,--a very
quaint old-fashioned law dining-house in the neighbourhood of
Portugal Street, which had managed not to get itself not pulled
down a dozen years ago on behalf of the Law Courts which are to
bless some coming generation. Arthur had never been there before
and was surprised at the black wainscotting, the black tables,
the old-fashioned grate, the two candles on the table, and the
silent waiter.
'I wanted to see you Arthur,' said the old man pressing his hand
in a melancholy way, 'but I couldn't ask you to Manchester
Square. They come in sometimes in the evening, and it might have
been unpleasant. At your young men's clubs they let strangers
dine. We haven't anything of that kind at the Eldon. You'll
find they'll give you a very good bit of fish here, and a fairish
steak.' Arthur declared that he thought it a capital place,--
the best fun in the world. 'And they've a very good bottle of
claret;--better than we get at the Eldon, I think. I don't know
that I can say much for their champagne. We'll try it. You
young fellows always like champagne.'
'I hardly ever touch it,' said Arthur. 'Sherry and claret are my
wines.'
'Very well;--very well. I did want to see you, my boy. Things
haven't turned out just as we wanted;--have they?'
'Not exactly, sir.'
'No indeed. You know the old saying, "God disposes all". I have
to make the best of it,--and so no doubt have you.'
'There's no doubt about it, sir,' said Arthur, speaking in a low
but almost angry voice. They were not in a room by themselves,
but in a recess which separated them from the room. 'I don't
know that I want to talk about it, but to me it is one of those
things for which there is no remedy. When a man loses his leg,
he hobbles on, and sometimes has a good time of it at last;--but
there he is, without a leg.'
'It wasn't my fault, Arthur.'
'There has been no fault but my own. I went in for the running,
and got distanced. That's simply all about it, and there's no
more to be said.'
'You ain't surprised that I should wish to see you.'
'I'm ever so much obliged. I think it's very kind of you.'
'I can't go in for a new life as you can. I can't take up
politics and Parliament. It's too late for me.'
'I'm going to. There's a bill coming on this very night that I'm
interested about. You mustn't be angry if I rush off a little
before ten. We are going to lend money to the parishes on the
security of the rates for draining bits of common land. Then we
shall sell the land and endow the unions, so as to lessen the
poor rates, and increase the cereal products of the country. We
think we can bring 300,000 acres under the plough in three years,
which now produce almost nothing, and in five years would pay all
the expenses. Putting the value of the land at 25 pounds an
acre, which is low, we shall have created property to the value
of seven million and a half. That's something, you know.'
'Oh, yes,' said Mr Wharton, who felt himself quite unable to
follow with any interest the aspirations of the young legislator.
'Of course it's complicated,' continued Arthur, 'but when you
come to look into it it comes out clear enough. It is one of the
instances of the omnipotence of capital. Parliament can do such
a thing, not because it has any creative power of its own, but
because it has the command of unlimited capital.' Mr Wharton
looked at him, sighing inwardly as he reflected that unrequited
love should have brought a clear-headed young barrister into
mists so thick and labyrinths so mazy as these. 'A very good
beef-steak indeed,' said Arthur; 'I don't know when I ate a
better one. Thank you, no;--I'll stick to the claret.' Mr
Wharton had offered him Madeira. 'Claret and brown meat always
go well together. Pancake? I don't object to a pancake. A
pancake's a very good thing. Now would you believe it, sir; they
can't make a pancake at the House.'
'And yet they sometimes fall very flat too,' said the lawyer,
making a real lawyer's joke.
But Mr Wharton still had something to say, though he hardly knew
how to say it. 'You must come and see us at the Square after a
bit.'
'Oh;--of course.'
'I wouldn't ask you to dine here to-day, because I thought we
should be less melancholy here;--but you mustn't cut us
altogether. You haven't seen Everett since you've been in town?'
'No, sir. I believe he lives a good deal,--a good deal with--
Mr Lopez. There was a little row down at Silverbridge. Of
course it will wear off, but just at present his lines and my
lines don't converge.'
'I'm very unhappy about him, Arthur.'
'There's nothing the matter?'
'My girl has married that man. I've nothing to say against him;
--but of course it wasn't to my taste, and I feel it as a
separation. And now Everett has quarrelled with me.'
'Quarrelled with you!'
Then the father told the story as well as he knew how. His son
had lost some money, and he had called him a gambler,--and
consequently his son would not come near him. 'It is bad to lose
them both, Arthur.'
'That is so unlike Everett.'
'It seems to me that everybody has changed,--except myself. Who
would have dreamed that she would have married that man? Not
that I have anything to say against him except that he was not of
our sort. He has been very good about Everett, and is very good
about him. But Everett will not come to me unless--I withdraw
the word;--say that I was wrong to call him a gambler. That is
a proposition no man should make to a father.'
'It is very unlike Everett,' repeated the other. 'Has he written
to you to that effect?'
'He has not written a word.'
'Why don't you go to see him yourself, and have it out with him?'
'Am I to go to that club after him?' said the father.
'Write to him and bid him come to you. I'll give up my seat if
he don't come to you. Everett was always a quaint fellow, a
little idle, you know,--mooning about after ideas--'
'He's no fool, you know,' said the father.
'Not at all;--only vague. But he's the last man in the world to
have nasty vulgar ideas of his own importance as distinguished
from yours.'
'Lopez says--'
'I wouldn't quite trust Lopez.'
'He isn't a bad fellow in his way, Arthur. Of course he is not
what I would have liked for a son-in-law. I needn't tell you
that. But he is kind and gentle-mannered, and has always been
attached to Everett. You know he saved Everett's life at the
risk of his own.' Arthur could not but smile as he perceived how
the old man was being won round by the son-in-law, whom he had
treated so violently before the man had become his son-in-law.
'By-the-way, what was all that about a letter you wrote to him?'
'Emily,--I mean Mrs Lopez,--will tell you if you ask her.'
'I don't want to ask her. I don't want to appear to set the wife
against the husband. I am sure, my boy, you would write nothing
that could affront her.'
'I think not, Mr Wharton. If I know myself well at all, or my
own nature, it is not probable that I should affront your
daughter.'
'No; no; no. I know that, my dear boy. I was always sure of
that. Take some more wine.'
'No more, thank you. I must be off because I'm so anxious about
this bill.'
'I couldn't ask Emily about this letter. Now that they are
married I have to make the best of it,--for her sake. I
couldn't bring myself to say anything to her which might seem to
accuse him.'
'I thought it right, sir, to explain to her that were I not in
the hands of other people, I would not do anything to interfere
with her happiness by opposing her husband. My language was more
guarded.'
'He destroyed the letter.'
'I have a copy of it if it comes to that,' said Arthur.
'It will be best, perhaps to say nothing further about it. Well;
--good night, my boy, if you must go.' Then Fletcher went off to
the House, wondering as he went at the change which had
apparently come over the character of his old friend. Mr Wharton
had always been a strong man, and now he seemed as weak as water.
As to Everett, Fletcher was sure that there was something wrong,
but he could not see his way to interfere himself. For the
present he was divided from the family. Nevertheless he told
himself again and again that the division should not be
permanent. Of all the world she must always be to him the
dearest.
CHAPTER 37
THE HORNS.
The first months of the session went on very much as the last
session had gone. The ministry did nothing brilliant. As far as
the outer world could see, they seemed to be firm enough. There
was no opposing party in the House strong enough to get a vote
against them on any subject. Outsiders, who only studied
politics in the columns of their newspapers, imagined the
Coalition to be very strong. But they who were inside, members
themselves, and the club quidnuncs who were always rubbing their
shoulders against members, knew better. The opposition to the
Coalition was within the Coalition itself. Sir Orlando Drought
had not been allowed to build his four ships, and was
consequently eager in his fears that the country would be invaded
by the combined forces of Germany and France, that India would be
sold by those powers to Russia, that Canada would be annexed to
the States, that a great independent Roman Catholic hierarchy
would be established in Ireland, and that Malta and Gibraltar
would be taken away from us;--all of which evils would be
averted by the building of four big ships. A wet blanket of so
terrible a size was in itself pernicious to the Cabinet, and
heartrending to the poor Duke. But Sir Orlando could do worse
even than this. As he was not to build his four ships, neither
should Mr Monk be allowed to readjust the country suffrage. When
the skeleton of Mr Monk's scheme was discussed in the Cabinet,
Sir Orlando would not agree to it. The gentlemen, he said, who
had joined the present Government with him, would never consent
to a measure which would be so utterly destructive of the
county's interest. If Mr Monk insisted on his measure in its
proposed form, he must, with very great regret, place his
resignation in the Duke's hands, and he believed that his friends
would find themselves compelled to follow the same course. Then
our Duke consulted the old Duke. The old Duke's advice was the
same as ever. The Queen's Government was the main object. The
present ministry enjoyed the support of the country, and he
considered it the duty of the First Lord of the Treasury to
remain at his post. The country was in no hurry, and the
question of suffrages in the counties might still be delayed.
Then he added a little counsel which might be called quite
private, as it was certainly intended for no other ears than
those of his younger friend. 'Give Sir Orlando rope enough and
he'll hang himself. His own party are becoming tired of him. If
you quarrel with him this session, Drummond, and Ramsden, and
Beeswax, would go out with him, and the Government would be
broken up; but next session you may get rid of him safely.'
'I wish it were broken up,' said the Prime Minister.
'You have your duty to do by the country and the Queen, and you
mustn't regard your own wishes. Next session, let Monk be ready
with his bill again,--the same measure exactly. Let Sir Orlando
resign then if he will. Should he do so I doubt whether anyone
would go with him. Drummond does not like him much better than
do you and I do.' The poor Prime Minister was forced to obey.
The old Duke was his only trusted counsellor, and he found
himself constrained by his conscience to do as that counsellor
counselled him. When, however, Sir Orlando, in his place as
Leader of the House, in answer to some question from a hot and
disappointed Radical, averred that the whole of Her Majesty's
Government had been quite in unison on this question of the
country's suffrage, he was hardly able to restrain himself. 'If
there be a difference of opinion they must be kept in the
background,' said the Duke of St Bungay. 'Nothing can justify a
direct falsehood,' said the Duke of Omnium. Thus it came to pass
that the only real measure which the Government had in hand was
one by which Phineas Finn hoped so to increase the power of Irish
municipalities as to make the Home Rulers believe that a certain
amount of Home Rule was being conceded to them. It was not a
great measure, and poor Phineas Finn hardly believed in it. And
thus the Duke's ministry came to be called the Faineants.
But the Duchess, though she had been much snubbed, still
persevered. Now and again she would declare herself to be broken-
hearted, and would say that things might go their own way, that
she would send in her resignation, that she would retire into
private life, and milk cows, that she would shake hands with no
more parliamentary cads and "cadesses",--a word which her Grace
condescended to coin for her own use, that she would spend the
next three years in travelling about the world; and lastly, that,
let there come whatever of it whatever might, Sir Orlando Drought
should never again be invited into any house of which she was the
mistress. This last threat, which was perhaps the most
indiscreet of them all, she absolutely made good--thereby adding
very greatly to her husband's difficulties.
But by the middle of June the parties at the house in Carlton
Terrace were as frequent and as large as ever. Indeed it was all
party with her. The Duchess possessed a pretty little villa down
at Richmond, on the river, called The Horns, and gave parties
there when there were none in London. She had picnics, and
flower parties, and tea parties, and afternoons, and evenings, on
the lawn,--till half London was always on its way to Richmond or
back again. How she worked! And yet from day to day she swore
that the world was ungrateful. Everybody went. She was so far
successful that nobody thought of despising her parties. It was
quite the thing to go to the Duchess's, whether at Richmond or in
London. But people abused her and laughed at her. They said
that she intrigued to get political support for her husband,--
and worse than that, they said that she failed. She did not fail
altogether. The world was not taken captive as she had intended.
Young members of Parliament did not become hotly enthusiastic in
support of her and her husband as she had hoped that they would
do. She had not become an institution of granite, as her dreams
had fondly told her might be possible,--for there had been
moments in which she had almost thought that she could rule
England by giving dinner and supper parties, by ices and
champagne. But in a dull, phlegmatic way, they who ate the ices
and drank the champagne were true to her. There was a feeling
abroad that 'Glencora' was a 'good sort of fellow' and ought to
be supported. And when the ridicule became too strong, or the
abuse too sharp, men would take up the cudgels for her, and fight
her battles;--a little too openly, perhaps, as they would do it
under her eyes, and in her hearing, and would tell her what they
had done, mistaking on such occasions her good humour for
sympathy. There was just enough success to prevent that
abandonment of her project which she so often threatened, but not
enough to make her triumphant. She was too clever not to see
that she was ridiculed. She knew that men called her Glencora
among themselves. She was herself quite alive to the fact that
she herself was wanting in dignity, and that with all the means
at her disposal, with all her courage and all her talents, she
did not quite play the part of the really great lady. But she
did not fail to tell herself that labour continued would at last
be successful, and she was strong to bear the buffets of the ill-
natured. She did not think that she brought first-class
materials to her work, but she believed,--a belief so erroneous
as, alas, it is common,--that first-rate results might be
achieved by second-rate means.
'We had such a battle about your Grace last night,' Captain
Gunner said to her.
'And were you my knight?'
'Indeed I was. I never heard such nonsense.'
'What were they saying?'
'Oh, the old story;--that you were like Martha, busying yourself
about many things.'
'Why shouldn't I busy myself about many things? It is a pity,
Captain Gunner, that some of you men have not something to busy
yourselves about.' All this was unpleasant. She could on such
an occasion make up her mind to drop any Captain Gunner who had
ventured to take too much upon himself: but she felt that in the
efforts she had made after popularity, she had submitted herself
to unpleasant familiarities;--and though persistent in her
course, she was still angry about herself.
When she had begun her campaign as the Prime Minister's wife, one
of her difficulties had been with regard to money. An abnormal
expenditure became necessary, for which her husband's express
sanction must be obtained, and steps taken in which his personal
assistance would be necessary;--but this had been done, and
there was now no further impediment in that direction. It seemed
to be understood that she was to spend what money she pleased.
There had been various contests between them, but in every
contest she had gained something. He had been majestically
indignant with her in reference to the candidature at
Silverbridge,--but, as is usual with many of us, had been unable
to maintain his anger about two things at the same time. Or,
rather, in the majesty of his anger about her interference, he
had disdained to descend to the smaller faults of her
extravagance. He had seemed to concede everything else to her,
on condition that he should be allowed to be imperious in
reference to the borough. In that matter she had given way,
never having opened her mouth about it after that one unfortunate
word to Mr Sprugeon. But, having done so, she was entitled to
squander her thousands without remorse,--and she squandered
them. 'It is your five-and-twenty thousand pounds, my dear,' she
once said to Mrs Finn, who often took upon herself to question
the prudence of all this expenditure. This referred to a certain
sum of money which had been left by the old Duke to Madame
Goesler, as she was then called,--a legacy which that lady had
repudiated. The money had, in truth, been given away to a
relation of the Duke's by the joint consent of the lady and the
Duke himself, but the Duchess was pleased to refer to it
occasionally as a still existing property.
'My five-and-twenty thousand pounds, as you call it, would not go
very far.'
'What's the use of money if you don't spend it? The Duke would
go on collecting it and buying more property,--which always
means more trouble,--not because he is avaricious, but because
for the time that comes easier than spending. Supposing he had
married a woman without a shilling, he would still have been a
rich man. As it is, my property was more even than his own. If
we can do any good by spending the money, why shouldn't it be
spent?'
'If you can do any good!'
'It all comes round to that. It isn't because I like always to
live in a windmill! I have come to hate it. At this moment I
would give worlds to be down at Matching with no one but the
children, and to go about in a straw hat and muslin gown. I have
a fancy that I could sit under a tree and read a sermon, and
think it the sweetest recreation. But I've made the attempt to
do all this, and it so mean to fail!'
'But where is to be the end of it?'
'There shall be no end as long as he is Prime Minister. He is
the first man in England. Some people would say the first in
Europe--or in the world. A Prince should entertain like a
Prince.'
'He need not be always entertaining.'
'Hospitality should run from a man with his wealth, and his
position, like water from a fountain. As his hand is known to be
full, so it should be known to be open. When the delight of his
friends is in question, he should know nothing of cost. Pearls
should drop from him as from a fairy. But I don't think you
understand me.'
'Not when the pearls are to be picked up by Captain Gunners, Lady
Glen.'
'I can't make the men any better,--nor yet the women. They are
poor mean creatures. The world is made up of such. I don't know
that Captain Gunner is worse than Sir Orlando Drought or Sir
Timothy Beeswax. People seen by the mind are exactly different
to things seen by the eye. They grow smaller and smaller as you
come nearer down to them, whereas things become bigger. I
remember when I used to think that members of the Cabinet were
almost gods, and now they seem to be no bigger than shoe-blacks,-
only less picturesque. He told me the other day of the time when
he gave up going into power for the sake of taking me abroad.
Ah! me; how much was happening then,--and how much has happened
since that! We didn't know you then.'
'He has been a good husband to you.'
'And I have been a good wife to him! I have never had him for an
hour out of my heart since that, or ever for a moment forgotten
his interest. I can't live with him because he shuts himself up
reading blue-books, and is always at his office or in the House;
--but I would if I could. Am I not doing it all for him? You
don't think that the Captain Gunnners are particularly pleasant
to me! Think of your life and of mine. You have had lovers.'
'One in my life,--when I was entitled to have one.'
'Well; I am the Duchess of Omnium, and I am the wife of the Prime
Minister, and I had a larger property of my own than any other
young woman that ever was born; and I am myself too,--Glencora
M'Cluskie that was, and I've made for myself a character that I'm
not ashamed of. But I'd be the curate's wife tomorrow, and make
puddings, if I could only have my own husband and my own children
with me. What's the use of it all? I like you better than
anybody else, but you do nothing but scold me.' Still the
parties went on, and the Duchess laboured hard among her guests,
and wore her jewels, and stood on her feet all the night, night
after night, being civil to one person, bright to a second,
confidential to a third, and sarcastic to an unfortunate fourth;
--and in the morning she would work hard with her lists, seeing
who had come to her and who had stayed away, and arranging who
should be asked and who should be omitted.
In the meantime the Duke altogether avoided those things. At
first he had been content to show himself, and escape as soon as
possible;--but now he was never seen at all in his own house,
except at certain heavy dinners. To Richmond he never went at
all, and in his own house in town very rarely ever passed through
the door that led into the reception rooms. He had not time for
ordinary society. So said the Duchess. And many, perhaps the
majority of those who frequented the house, really believed that
his official duties were too onerous to leave him time for
conversation. But in truth the hours wore heavily with him as he
sat alone in his study, sighing for some sweet parliamentary
task, and regretting the days in which he was privileged to sit
in the House of Commons till two o'clock in the morning, in the
hope that he might get a clause or two passed in his bill for
decimal coinage.
It was at The Horns at an afternoon party, given there in the
gardens by the Duchess, early in July, that Arthur Fletcher first
saw Emily after her marriage, and Lopez after the occurrence at
Silverbridge. As it happened he came out upon the lawn after
them, and found them speaking to the Duchess as they passed on.
She had put herself out of her way to be civil to Mr and Mrs
Lopez, feeling that she had in some degree injured him in
reference to the election, and had therefore invited both him and
his wife on more than one occasion. Arthur Fletcher was there as
a young man well known in the world and a supporter of the Duke's
government. The Duchess had taken up Arthur Fletcher,--as she
was wont to take up new men, and had personally become tired of
Lopez. Of course she had heard of the election, and had been
told that Lopez had behaved badly. Of Mr Lopez she did not know
enough to care anything, one way or the other;--but she still
encouraged him because she had caused him disappointment. She
had now detained them a minute on the terrace before the windows
while she said a word, and Arthur Fletcher became one of the
little party before he knew whom he was meeting. 'I am
delighted,' she said, 'that you two Silverbridge heroes should
meet together here as friends.' It was almost incumbent on her
to say something, though it would have been better for her not to
have alluded to their heroism. Mrs Lopez put out her hand, and
Arthur Fletcher of course took it. Then the two men bowed
slightly to each other, raising their hats. Arthur paused a
moment with them, as they passed on from the Duchess, thinking
that he would say something in a friendly tone. But he was
silenced by the frown on the husband's face, and was almost
constrained to go away without a word. It was very difficult for
him even to be silent, as her greeting had been kind. But yet it
was impossible for him to ignore the displeasure displayed in the
man's countenance. So he touched his hat, and asking her to
remember him affectionately to her father, turned off the path
and went away.
'Why did you shake hands with that man?' said Lopez. It was the
first time since their marriage that his voice had been that of
an angry man and an offended husband.
'Why not, Ferdinand? He and I are very old friends, and we have
not quarrelled.'
'You must take up your husband's friendships and your husband's
quarrels. Did I not tell you that he had insulted you?'
'He never insulted me.'
'Emily, you must allow me to be the judge of that. He insulted
you, and then he behaved like a poltroon down at Silverbridge,
and I will not have you know him anymore. When I say so I
suppose that will be enough.' He waited for a reply, but she
said nothing. 'I ask you to tell me that you will obey me in
this.'
'Of course he will not come to my house, nor should I think of
going to his, if you disapproved.'
'Going to his house! He's unmarried.'
'Supposing he had a wife! Ferdinand, perhaps it will be better
that you and I should not talk about him.'
'By G-,' said Lopez, 'there shall be no subject on which I will
afraid to talk to my own wife. I insist upon your assuring me
that you will never speak to him again.'
He had taken her along one of the upper walks because it was
desolate, and he could there speak to her, as he thought,
without being heard. She had, almost unconsciously, made a faint
attempt to lead him down the lawn, no doubt feeling averse to
private conversations at the moment; but he had persevered, and
had resented the little effort. The idea in his mind that she
was unwilling to renounce the man, anxious to escape his order
for such renunciation, added fuel to his jealousy. It was not
enough for him that she had rejected this man and had accepted
him. The man had been her lover, and she should be made to
denounce the man. It might be necessary for him to control his
feelings before old Wharton;--but he knew enough of his wife to
be sure that would not speak evil of him or betray him to her
father. Her loyalty to him, which he could understand though not
appreciate, enabled him to be a tyrant to her. So now he
repeated his order to her, pausing in the path, with a voice
unintentionally loud, and frowning down upon her as he spoke.
'You must tell me, Emily, that you will never speak to him
again.'
She was silent, looking up into his face, not with tremulous
eyes, but with infinite woe written in them, had he been able to
read the writing. She knew that he was disgracing himself, and
yet he was the man whom she loved! 'If you bid me not to speak
to him, I will not,--but he must know the reason why.'
'He shall know nothing from you. You do not mean to say that you
would write to him.'
'Papa must tell him.'
'I will not have it so. In this matter, Emily, I will be the
master,--as it is fit that I should be. I will not have you
talk to your father about Mr Fletcher.'
'Why not, Ferdinand?'
'Because I have so decided. He is an old family friend. I can
understand that, and do not therefore wish to interfere between
him and your father. But he has taken upon himself to write an
insolent letter to you as my wife, and to interfere in my
affairs. As to what should be done between you and him, I must
be the judge and not your father.'
'And I must not speak to papa about it?'
'No!'
'Ferdinand, you make too little, I think, of the associations and
affections of a whole life.'
'I will hear nothing about affection,' he said angrily.
'You cannot mean that,--that--you doubt me?'
'Certainly not. I think too much of myself and too little of
him.' It did not occur to him to tell her that he thought too
well of her for that. 'But the man who has offended me must be
held to have offended you also.'
'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
should 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 my 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 acknowledgment.
'But you cannot, nor can I for your sake, abolish the things
which have been.'
'I wish you 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.
CHAPTER 38
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 heard of
anything. If two men fought a duel in his own dining-room he
would be the last man in London to know about it.'
'Then say nothing about it, and don't ask the men anymore.'
'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 things that I shall need to be told directly. My idea is,
you know, that they had better get rid of Sir Orlando,--and that
if Sir Orlando chooses to kick over the traces, he may be turned
loose without any danger. One has little birds that give one all
manner of information, and one little bird has told me that Sir
Orlando and Mr Roby don't speak. Mr Roby is not very much
himself, but he is a good straw to show which way the wind blows.
Plantagenet certainly sent no message about Sir Orlando, and I'm
afraid the gentleman must look for his dinners elsewhere.'
The Duke had in truth expressed himself very plainly to Mr
Warburton; but with so much indiscreet fretfulness that the
discreet private secretary had not told it even to the Duchess.
'This kind of thing argues a want of cordiality that may be fatal
to us,' Sir Orlando had said somewhat grandiloquently to the
Duke, and the Duke had made--almost no reply. 'I suppose I may
ask my own guests into my own house,' he had said afterwards to
Mr Warburton, 'though in public life I am everybody's slave.' Mr
Warburton, anxious of course to maintain the unity of the party,
had told the Duchess so much as would, he thought, induce her to
give way, but he had not repeated the Duke's own observations,
which were, Mr Warburton thought, hostile to the interests of the
party. The Duchess only smiled and made a little grimace, with
which the private secretary was already well acquainted. And Sir
Orlando received no invitation.
In those days Sir Orlando was unhappy and irritable, doubtful of
further success as regarded the Coalition, but quite resolved to
put the house down about the ears of the inhabitants rather than
to leave it with gentle resignation. To him it seemed to be
impossible that the Coalition should exist without him. He too
had moments of high-vaulting ambition, in which he had almost
felt himself to be the great man required by the country, the one
ruler who could gather together in his grasp the reins of
government and drive the State coach single-handed safe through
its difficulties for the next half-dozen years. There are men
who cannot conceive of themselves that anything should be
difficult for them, and again others who cannot bring themselves
so to trust themselves as to think that they can ever achieve
anything great. Samples of each sort from time to time rise high
in political life, carried thither apparently by Epicurean
concourse of atoms; and it often happens that the more confident
samples are by no means the most capable. The concourse of atoms
had carried Sir Orlando so high that he could not but think
himself intended for something higher. But the Duke, who had
really been wafted to the very top, had always doubted himself,
believing himself capable of doing some one thing by dint of
industry, but with no further confidence in his own powers. Sir
Orlando had perceived something of his leader's weakness, and had
thought that he might profit by it. He was not only a
distinguished member of the Cabinet, but even the recognised
Leader of the House of Commons. He looked out the facts and
found that for five-and-twenty years out of the last thirty the
Leader of the House of Commons had been the Head of Government.
He felt that he would be mean not to stretch out his hand and
take the prize destined for him. The Duke was a poor timid man
who had very little to say for himself. Then came the little
episode about the dinners. It had become very evident to the
world that the Duchess of Omnium had cut Sir Orlando Drought,--
that the Prime Minister's wife, who was great in hospitality,
would not admit the First Lord of the Admiralty into her house.
The doings of Gatherum Castle, and in Carlton Terrace, and at The
Horns were watched much too closely by the world at large to
allow such omissions to be otherwise than conspicuous. Since the
commencement of the session there had been a series of articles
in the "People's Banner" violently abusive of the Prime Minister,
and in one or two of these the indecency of these exclusions had
been exposed with great strength of language. And the Editor of
the "People's Banner" had discovered that Sir Orlando Drought was
the one man in Parliament fit to rule the nation. Till
Parliament should discover this fact, or at least acknowledge it,
--the discovery having been happily made by the "People's
Banner",--the Editor of the "People's Banner" thought there
could be no hope for the country. Sir Orlando of course saw all
these articles, and his very heart believed that a man at length
sprung up among them fit to conduct a newspaper. The Duke also
unfortunately saw the "People's Banner". In his old happy days
two papers a day, one in the morning and the other before dinner,
sufficed to tell him all that he wanted to know. Now he felt it
necessary to see almost every rag that was published. And he
would skim through them all till he found lines in which he
himself was maligned, and then, with sore heart and irritated
nerves, would pause over every contumelious word. He would have
bitten his tongue out rather that have spoken of the tortures he
endured, but he was tortured and did endure. He knew the cause
of the bitter personal attacks upon him,--of the abuse with
which he was loaded, and of the ridicule, infinitely more painful
to him, with which his wife's social splendour was bespattered.
He remembered well the attempt with which Mr Quintus Slide had
made to obtain an entrance into his house, and his own scornful
rejection of that gentleman's overtures. He knew,--no man knew
better,--the real value of that able Editor's opinion. And yet
every word of it was gall and wormwood to him. In every
paragraph there was a scourge which hit him on the raw and opened
the wounds which he could show to no kind surgeon, for which he
could find solace in no friendly treatment. Not even to his wife
could he condescend to say that Mr Quintus Slide had hurt him.
Then Sir Orlando had come himself. Sir Orlando explained himself
gracefully. He of course could understand that no gentleman had a
right to complain because he was not asked to another gentleman's
house. But the affairs of the country were above private
considerations; and he, actuated by public feelings, would
condescend to do that which under other circumstances would be
impossible. The public press, which was every vigilant, had
suggested that there was some official estrangement, because Sir
Orlando had not been included in the list of guests invited by
His Grace. Did not his Grace think that there might be seeds of,
--he would not quite say decay for the Coalition, in such a state
of things? The Duke paused for a moment, and then said that he
thought there were no such seeds. Sir Orlando bowed haughtily
and withdrew,--swearing at that moment that the Coalition should
be made to fall into a thousand shivers. This had all taken
place a fortnight before the party at The Horns from which poor
Mrs Lopez had been withdrawn so hastily.
But Sir Orlando, when he commenced the proceeding consequent on
this resolution, did not find all that support which he had
expected. Unfortunately there had been an uncomfortable word or
two between him and Mr Roby, the political Secretary at the
Admiralty. Mr Roby had never quite seconded Sir Orlando's ardour
in the matter of the four ships, and Sir Orlando in his pride of
place had ventured to snub Mr Roby. Now Mr Roby could perhaps
bear a snubbing perhaps as well as any other official
subordinate,--but he was one who would study the question and
assure himself that it was, or that it was not, worth his while
to bear it. He, too, had discussed with his friends the
condition of the Coalition, and had come to some conclusions
rather adverse to Sir Orlando than otherwise. When, therefore,
the First Secretary sounded him as to the expediency of some step
in the direction of a firmer political combination than at
present existing,--by which of course was meant the dethronement
of the present Prime Minister,--Mr Roby had snubbed him! Then
there had been slight official criminations and recriminations,
till a state of things had come to pass which almost justified
the statement by the Duchess to Mrs Finn.
The Coalition had many component parts, some coalescing without
difficulty, but with no special cordiality. Such was the
condition of things between the very conservative Lord Lieutenant
of Ireland and his somewhat radical Chief Secretary, Mr Finn,--
between probably the larger number of those who were contented
with the duties of their own offices and the pleasures and
profits arising therefrom. Some by this time hardly coalesced at
all, as was the case with Sir Gregory Grogram and Sir Timothy
Beeswax, the Attorney-General and Solicitor-General;--and was
especially the case with the Prime Minister and Sir Orlando
Drought. But in one or two happy cases the Coalition was sincere
and loyal,--and in no case was this more so than with regard to
Mr Rattler and Mr Roby. Mr Rattler and Mr Roby had throughout
their long parliamentary lives belonged to opposite parties, and
had been accustomed to regard each other with mutual jealousy and
almost with mutual hatred. But now they had come to see how
equal, how alike, and how sympathetic were their tastes, and how
well each might help the other. As long as Mr Rattler could keep
his place at the Treasury,--and his ambition never stirred him
to aught higher,--he was quite contented that his old rival
should be happy at the Admiralty. And that old rival, when he
looked about him and felt his present comfort, when he remembered
how short-lived had been the good things which had hitherto come
in his way, and how little probable it was that long-lived good
things should be his when the Coalition was broken up, manfully
determined that loyalty to the present Head of Government was his
duty. He had sat for too many years on the same bench with Sir
Orlando to believe much in his power of governing the country.
Therefore, when Sir Orlando dropped his hint Mr Roby did not take
it.
'I wonder whether it's true that Sir Orlando complained to the
Duke that he was not asked to dinner?' said Mr Roby to Mr
Rattler.
'I should hardly think so. I can't fancy that he would have the
pluck,' said Mr Rattler. 'The Duke isn't the easiest man in the
world to speak about such a thing as that.'
'It would be a monstrous thing for a man to do! But Drought's
head is quite turned. You can see that.'
'We never thought much about him, you know, on our side.'
'It was what your side thought about him,' rejoined Roby, 'that
put him where he is now.'
'It was the fate of accidents, Roby, which puts many of us in our
places, and arranges our work for us, and makes us little men or
big men. There are other men besides Drought who have been
tossed up in a blanket till they don't know whether their heads
or their heels are highest.'
'I quite believe the Duke,' said Mr Roby, almost alarmed by the
suggestion which his new friend had seemed to make.
'So do I, Roby. He has not the obduracy of Lord Brock, nor the
ineffable manner of Mr Mildmay, nor the brilliant intellect of Mr
Gresham.'
'Nor the picturesque imagination of Mr Daubney,' said Mr Roby,
feeling himself bound to support the character of his late chief.
'Nor the audacity,' said Mr Rattler. 'But he has the peculiar
gift of his own, and gifts fitted for the peculiar combination of
circumstances, if he will only be content to use them. He is a
just, unambitious, intelligent man, in whom after a while the
country would come to have implicit confidence. But he is thin-
skinned and ungenial.'
'I have got into his boat,' said Roby, enthusiastically, 'and he
will find that I shall be true to him.'
'There is not better boat to be in at present,' said the slightly
sarcastic Rattler. 'As to the Drought pinnace, it will be more
difficult to get it afloat than the four ships themselves. To
tell the truth honestly, Roby, we have to rid ourselves of Sir
Orlando. I have a great regard for the man.'
'I can't say I ever liked him.'
'I don't talk about liking,--but he has achieved success, and is
to be regarded. Now he has lost his head, and he is bound to get
a fall. The question is,--who shall fall with him?'
'I do not feel myself at all bound to sacrifice myself.'
'I don't know who does. Sir Timothy Beeswax, I suppose, will
resent the injury done him. But I can hardly think that a strong
government can be formed by Sir Orlando Drought and Sir Timothy
Beeswax. Any secession is a weakness,--of course; but I think
we may survive it.' And so Mr Rattler and Mr Roby made up their
minds that the first Lord of the Admiralty might be thrown
overboard without much danger to the Queen's ship.
Sir Orlando, however, was quite in earnest. The man had spirit
enough to feel that no alternative was left to him after he had
condescended to suggest that he should be asked to dinner and had
been refused. He tried Mr Roby, and found that Mr Roby was a
mean fellow, wedded, as he told himself, to his salary. Then he
sounded Lord Drummond, urging various reasons. The country was
not safe without more ships. Mr Monk was altogether wrong about
revenue. Mr Finn's ideas about Ireland were revolutionary. But
Lord Drummond thought that, upon the whole, the present Ministry
served the country well, and considered himself bound to adhere
to it. 'He cannot beat the idea of being out of power,' said Sir
Orlando to himself. He next said a word to Sir Timothy; but Sir
Timothy was not the man to be led by the nose by Sir Orlando.
Sir Timothy had his grievance and meant to have his revenge, but
he knew how to choose his own time. 'The Duke's not a bad
fellow,' said Sir Timothy,--'perhaps a little weak, but well-
meaning. I think we ought to stand by him a little longer. As
for Finn's Irish bill, I haven't troubled myself about it.' Then
Sir Orlando declared himself that Sir Timothy was a coward, and
resolved that he would act alone.
About the middle of July he went to the Duke at the Treasury, was
closeted with him, and in a very long narration of his own
differences, difficulties, opinions, and grievances, explained to
the Duke that his conscience called upon him to resign. The Duke
listened and bowed his head, and with one or two very gently-
uttered word expressed his regret. Then Sir Orlando, in another
long speech, laid bare his bosom to the Chief whom he was
leaving, declaring the inexpressible sorrow with which he had
found himself called upon to take a step which he feared might be
prejudicial to the political status of a man whom he honoured so
much as he did the Duke of Omnium. Then the Duke bowed again,
but said nothing. The man had been guilty of the impropriety of
questioning the way in which the Duke's private hospitality was
exercised, and the Duke could not bring himself to be genially
civil to such an offender. Sir Orlando went on to say that he
would of course explain his views in the Cabinet, but that he had
thought it right to make them known to the Duke as soon as they
were formed. 'The best friends must part, Duke,' he said as he
took his leave. 'I hope not, Sir Orlando. I hope not,' said the
Duke. But Sir Orlando had been too full of himself and of the
words he had to speak, and of the thing he was about to do, to
understand either the Duke's words or his silence.
And so Sir Orlando resigned, and thus supplied the only morsel of
political interest which the Session produced. 'Take no more
notice of him than if your footman was going,' had been the
advice of the old Duke. Of course there was a Cabinet meeting on
the occasion, but even there the commotion was very slight, as
every member knew before entering the room what it was that Sir
Orlando intended to do. Lord Drummond said that the step was one
to be much lamented. 'Very much indeed,' said the Duke of St
Bungay. His word themselves were false and hypocritical, but the
tone of his voice took away all the deceit. 'I am afraid,' said
the Prime Minister, 'from what Sir Orlando has said to me
privately, that we cannot hope that he will change his mind.'
'That I certainly cannot do,' said Sir Orlando, with all the
dignified courage of a modern martyr.
On the next morning the papers were full of the political fact,
and were blessed with a subject on which they could exercise
their prophetical sagacity. The remarks made were generally
favourable to the Government. Three or four of the morning
papers were of opinion that though Sir Orlando had been a strong
man, and a good public servant, the Ministry might exist without
him. But the "People's Banner" was able to expound to the people
at large, that the only grain of salt by which the Ministry had
been kept from putrefaction had been cast out, and that
mortification, death and corruption, must ensue. It was one of
Mr Quintus Slide's greatest efforts.
CHAPTER 39
'GET ROUND HIM.'
Ferdinand Lopez maintained his anger against his wife for more
than a week, after the scene at Richmond, feeding it with
reflections on what he called her disobedience. Nor was it a
make-believe anger. She had declared her intention to act in
opposition to his expressed orders. He felt that his present
condition was prejudicial to his interests, and that he must take
his wife back into favour, in order the he might make progress
with her father, but could hardly bring himself to swallow his
wrath. He thought it was her duty to obey him in everything,--
and that disobedience on a matter touching her old lover was an
abominable offence, to be visited with severest marital
displeasure, and with a succession of scowls that should make her
miserable for a month at least. Nor on her behalf would he have
hesitated, though the misery might have continued three months.
But then the old man was the main hope in his life, and must be
made its mainstay. Brilliant prospects were before him. He used
to think that Mr Wharton was a hale man, with some terribly
vexatious term of his life before him. But now, now that he was
seen more closely, he appeared to be very old. He would sit half
bent in the arm-chair in Stone Buildings, and look as though he
were near a hundred. And from day to day he seemed to lean more
upon his son-in-law, whose visits to him were continued, and
always well taken. The constant subject of discourse between
them was Everett Wharton, who had not yet seen his father since
the misfortune of their quarrel. Everett had declared to Lopez a
dozen times that he would go to his father if his father wished
it, and Lopez as often reported the father that Everett would not
go to him unless he expressed such a wish. And so they had been
kept apart. Lopez did not suppose that the old man would
disinherit his son altogether,--did not, perhaps, wish it. But
he thought that the condition of the old man's mind would affect
the partition of his property, and that the old man would surely
make some new will in the present state of his affairs. The old
man always asked after his daughter, begging that she would come
to see him, and at last it was necessary that an evening should
be fixed. 'We shall be delighted to come to-day or to-morrow,'
Lopez said.
'We had better say to-morrow. There would be nothing to eat to-
day. The house isn't now what it used to be.' It was therefore
expedient that Lopez should drop his anger when he got home, and
prepare his wife to dine in Manchester Square in a proper frame
of mind.
Her misery had been extreme;--very much more bitter than he had
imagined. It was not only that his displeasure made her life for
the time wearisome, and robbed the only society she had of all
its charms. It was not only that her heart was wounded by his
anger. Those evils might have been short-lived. But she had
seen,--she could not fail to see,--that his conduct was
unworthy of her and of her deep love. Though she struggled hard
against the feeling, she could not but despise the meanness of
his jealousy. She knew thoroughly well that there had been no
grain of offence in that letter from Arthur Fletcher,--and she
knew that no man, to true man, would have taken offence at it.
She tried to quench her judgement, and to silence the verdict
which her intellect gave against him, but her intellect was too
strong even for her heart. She was beginning to learn that the
god of idolatry was but a little human creature, and that she
should not have worshipped at so poor a shrine. But nevertheless
the love should be continued, and, if possible, the worship,
though the idol had been already found to have feet of clay. He
was her husband, and she would be true to him. As morning after
morning he left her still with that harsh, unmanly frown upon his
face, she would look up at him with entreating eyes, and when he
returned would receive him with her fondest smile. At length he,
too, smiled. He came to after that interview with Mr Wharton and
told her, speaking with the soft yet incisive voice which she
used to love so well, that they were to dine in the Square on the
following day. 'Let there be an end of all of this,' he said,
taking her in his arms and kissing her. Of course she did not
tell him that 'all this' had sprung from his ill-humour and not
from hers. 'I own I have been angry,' he continued. 'I will say
nothing more about it now; but that man did vex me.'
'I have been so sorry that you should have been vexed.'
'Well;--let it pass away. I don't think your father is looking
very well.'
'He is not ill?'
'Oh no. He feels the loss of your society. He is so much alone.
You must be more with him.'
'Has he not seen Everett yet?'
'No. Everett is not behaving altogether well.' Emily was made
unhappy by this, and showed it. 'He is the best fellow in the
world. I may safely say there is no other man whom I regard so
warmly as I do your brother. But he takes wrong ideas into his
head, and nothing will knock them out. I wonder what your father
has done about his will.'
'I have not an idea. Nothing you may be sure will make him
unjust to Everett.'
'Ah!--You don't happen to know whether he ever made a will?'
'Not at all. He would be sure to say nothing to me about it,--
or to anybody.'
'That is the kind of secrecy which I think is wrong. It leads to
so much uncertainty. You wouldn't like to ask him?'
'No;--certainly.'
'It is astonishing to me how afraid you are of your father. He
hasn't any land, has he?'
'Land!'
'Real estate. You know what I mean. He couldn't well have
landed property without your knowing it.' She shook her head.
'It might make an immense difference to us, you know.'
'Why so?'
'If he were to die without a will, any land,--houses and that
kind of property,--would go to Everett. I never knew a man who
told his children so little. I want you to understand these
things. You and I will be badly off if he doesn't do something
for us.'
'You don't think he is really ill?'
'No;--not ill. Men above seventy are apt to die, you know.'
'Oh, Ferdinand,--what a way to talk of it!'
'Well, my love, the thing is so seriously matter-of-fact, that it
is better to look at it in a matter-of-fact way. I don't want
your father to die.'
'I hope not. I hope not.'
'But I should be very glad to learn what he means to do while he
lives. I want to get you into sympathy with me on this matter;--
but it is so difficult.'
'Indeed I sympathise with you.'
'The truth is that he has taken an aversion to Everett.'
'God forbid!'
'I am doing all I can to prevent it. But if he does throw
Everett over we ought to have advantage of it. There is no harm
in saying as much as that. Think what it should be if he should
take it into his head to leave his money to hospitals. My G-;
fancy what my condition would be if I were to hear of such a will
as that! If he destroyed the old will. Partly because he didn't
like our marriage, and partly in anger against Everett, and then
die without making another, the property would be divided,--
unless he bought land. You see how many dangers there are. Oh
dear! I can look forward and see myself mad,--or else myself so
proudly triumphant!' All this horrified her, but he did not see
her horror. He knew that she disliked it, but thought that
disliked the trouble, and that she dreaded her father. 'Now I do
think that you could help me a little,' he continued.
'What can I do?'
'Get round him when he's a little down in the mouth. That is the
way in which old men are conquered.' How utterly ignorant he was
of the very nature of her mind and disposition! To be told by
her husband that she was to 'get round' her father! 'You should
see him every day. He would be delighted if you would go to him
at his chambers. Or you could take care to be in the Square when
he comes home. I don't know whether we had not better leave this
and go an live near him. Would you mind that?'
'I would do anything you suggest as to living anywhere.'
'But you won't do anything I suggest as to your father.'
'As to my being with him, if I thought he wished it,--though I
had to walk my feet off, I would go to him.'
'There's no need of hurting your feet. There's the brougham.'
'I do so wish, Ferdinand, you would discontinue the brougham. I
don't at all want it. I don't at all dislike cabs. And I was
only joking about walking. I walk very well.'
'Certainly not. You fail altogether to understand my ideas about
things. If things were going bad with us, I would infinitely
prefer getting a pair of horses for you to putting down the one
you have.' She certainly did not understand his ideas.
'Whatever we do we must hold our heads up. I think he is coming
round to cotton to me. He is very close, but I can see that he
likes my going to him. Of course, as he gets older from day to
day, he'll constantly want someone to lean on more than
heretofore.'
'I would go and stay with him if he wanted me.'
'I have thought of that too. Now that would be a saving,--
without any fall. And if we were both there we could hardly fail
to know what he was doing. You could offer that, couldn't you?
You could say as much as that?'
'I could ask him if he wished it.'
'Just so. Say that it occurs to you that he is lonely by
himself, and that we will both go to the Square at a moment's
notice if he thinks it will make him comfortable. I feel sure
that that will be the best step to take. I have already had an
offer for these rooms, and could get rid of the things we have
bought to advantage.'
This, too, was terrible to her, and at the same time altogether
unintelligible. She had been invited to buy little treasures to
make their home more comfortable, and had already learned to take
that delight in her belongings which is one of the greatest
pleasures of a young married woman's life. A girl in her old
home, before she is given up to a husband, has many sources of
interest, and probably from day to day sees many people. And the
man just married goes to his work, and occupies his time, and has
his thickly-peopled world around him. But the bride, when the
bridal honours of the honeymoon are over, when the sweet care of
the first cradle has not yet come to her, is apt to be lonely and
to be driven to the contemplation of the pretty things with which
her husband and her friends have surrounded her. It had
certainly been so with this young bride, whose husband left her
in the morning and only returned for their late dinner. And now
she was told that her household gods had had a price put on them,
and that they were to be sold. She had intended to suggest that
she would pay her father a visit, and her husband immediately
proposed that they should quarter themselves permanently on the
old man! She was ready to give up her brougham, though she liked
the comfort of it well enough, but to that he would not consent
because the possession of it gave him an air of wealth; but
without a moment's hesitation he could catch up the idea of
throwing upon her father the burden of maintaining both her and
himself! She understood the meaning of this. She could read his
mind so far. She endeavoured not to read the book too closely,--
but there it was, opened to her wider day by day, and she knew
that the lessons which it taught were vulgar and damnable.
And yet she had to hide from him her own perception of himself!
She had to sympathise with his desires and yet abstain from doing
that which his desires demanded from her. Alas, poor girl! She
soon knew that the 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 who
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 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
not 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
their 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 good things, and 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 in 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 need 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.
CHAPTER 40
'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 is 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 dinner. I dare say Mrs Roby will be
there, and I will get her on one side. At any rate you can
manage it, because we shall be early, and I'll take up a book
while you are talking to him.'
'What do you wish me to say to him, Ferdinand?'
'I have been thinking of your own proposal, and I am quite sure
that we had better join him in the Square. The thing is, I am in
a little mess about the rooms, and can't stay on without paying
very dearly for them.'
'I thought you had paid for them.'
'Well;--yes; in one sense I had, but you don't understand about
business. You had better not interrupt me now, as I have got a
good deal to say before we get to the Square. It will suit me to
give up the rooms. I don't like them, and they are very dear.
As you yourself said, it will be a capital thing for us to go and
live with your father.'
'I meant only for a visit.'
'It will be for a visit;--and we'll make it a long visit.' It
was odd that the man should have been so devoid of right feeling
himself as not to have known that the ideas which he expressed
were revolting! 'You can sound him. Begin by saying that you
are afraid he is desolate. He told me himself that he was
desolate, and you can refer to that. Then tell him that we are
both of us prepared to do anything that we can to relieve him.
Put your arm over him, and kiss him, and all that sort of thing.'
She shrunk from him into the corner of the brougham, and yet he
did not perceive it. 'Then say that you think he would be
happier if we were to join him here for a time. You can make him
understand that there would be no difficulty about the
apartments. But don't say it all in a set speech, as though it
were prepared,--though of course you can let him know that you
have suggested it to me, and that I am willing. Be sure to let
him understand that the idea began with you.'
'But it did not.'
'You proposed to go and stay with him. Tell him just that. And
you should explain to him that he can dine at the club just as
much as he likes. When you were alone with him here, of course,
he had to come home, but he needn't do that now unless he
chooses. Of course the brougham would be my affair. And if he
should say anything about sharing the house expenses, you can
tell him that I would do anything he might propose.' Her father
to share the household expenses in his own house, and with his
own children! 'You say as much as you can of all this before
dinner, so that when we are sitting below he may suggest it if he
pleases. It would suit me to get in there next week if
possible.'
And so one lesson had been given. She had said little or nothing
in reply, and he had only finished as they entered the Square.
She had hardly a minute allowed her to think how far she might
follow, and in what she must ignore, her husband's instructions.
If she might use her own judgement, she would tell her father at
once that a residence for a time beneath his roof would be of
service to them pecuniarily. But this she might not do. She
understood that her duty to her husband did forbid her to
proclaim his poverty in opposition to his wishes. She would tell
nothing that he did not wish her to tell,--but make the
suggestion about their change of residence, and would make it
with proper affection;--but as regarded themselves she would
simply say that it would suit their views to give up their rooms
if it suited them.
Mr Wharton was all alone when they entered the drawing-room,--
but as Mr Lopez had surmised, had asked his sister-in-law round
the corner to come to dinner. 'Roby always likes an excuse to
get to his club,' said the old man, 'and Harriet likes an excuse
to go anywhere.' It was not long before Lopez began to play his
part by seating himself close to the open window and looking out
into the Square; and Emily when she found herself close to her
father, with her hand in his, could hardly divest herself of a
feeling that she also was playing her part. 'I see so very
little of you,' said the old man plaintively.
'I'd come oftener if I thought you'd like it.'
'It isn't liking, my dear. Of course you have to live with your
husband. Isn't it sad about Everett?'
'Very sad. But Everett hasn't lived here for ever so long.'
'I don't know why he shouldn't. He was a fool to go away when he
did. Does he go to you?'
'Yes;--sometimes.'
'And what does he say?'
'I'm sure he would be with you at once if you would ask him.'
'I have asked him. I've sent word by Lopez over and over again.
If he means that I am to write to him and say that I'm sorry for
offending him, I won't. Don't talk of him any more. It makes me
so angry that I sometimes feel inclined to do things which I know
I should repent when dying.'
'Not anything to injure Everett, papa?'
'I wonder whether he ever thinks that I am an old man and all
alone, and that his brother-in-law is daily with me. But he's a
fool, and thinks of nothing. I know it is very sad being here
night after night by myself.' Mr Wharton forgot, no doubt, at
the moment, that he passed the majority of his evenings at the
Eldon,--though had he been reminded of it, he might have
declared with perfect truth that the delights of his club were
not satisfactory.
'Papa,' said Emily, 'would you like us to come and live here?'
'What,--you and Lopez;--here in the Square?'
'Yes,--for a time. He is thinking of giving up the place in
Belgrave Mansions.'
'I thought he had them for,--for ever so many months.'
'He does not like them, and they are expensive, and he can give
them up. If you would wish it, we would come here,--for a time.'
He turned round and looked at her almost suspiciously; and she,--
she blushed as she remembered how accurately she was obeying her
husband's orders. 'It would be such a joy to me to be near you
again.'
There was something in her voice which instantly reassured him.
'Well--;' he said, 'come and try it if it will suit him. The
house is big enough. It will ease his pocket and be a comfort to
me. Come and try it.'
It astonished her that the thing should be done so easily. Here
was all that her husband had proposed to arrange by deep
diplomacy settled in three words. And yet she felt ashamed of
herself,--as though she had taken her father in. That terrible
behest to 'get round him' still grated on her ears. Had she got
round him? Had she cheated him into this?
'Papa,' she said, 'do not do this unless you feel sure that you
will like it.'
'How is anybody to feel sure of anything, my dear?'
'But if you doubt, do not do it.'
'I feel sure of one thing, that is that it will be a great saving
to your husband, and I am nearly sure that ought not to be a
matter of indifference to him. There is plenty of room here, and
it will at any rate be a comfort to me to see you sometimes.'
Just at this moment Mrs Roby came in, and the old man began to
tell his news aloud. 'Emily has not gone away for long. She's
coming back like a bad shilling.'
'Not to live in the Square?' said Mrs Roby, looking round at
Lopez.
'Why not? There's room here for them, and it will be just as
well to save expense. When will you come, my dear?'
'Whenever the house may be ready, papa.'
'It's ready now. You ought to know that I am not going to
refurnish the rooms for you, or anything of that kind. Lopez can
come in an hang up his hat whenever it pleases him.'
During this time Lopez had hardly known how to speak or what to
say. He had been very anxious that his wife should pave the way
as he would have called it. He had been urgent with her to break
the ice to her father. But it had not occurred to him that the
matter would be settled without any reference to himself. Of
course he had heard every word that had been spoken, and was
aware that his own poverty had been suggested as the cause for
such a proceeding. It was a great thing for him in every way.
He would live for nothing, and would also have almost unlimited
power of being with Mr Wharton as old age grew on him. This
ready compliance with his wishes was a benefit far too precious
to be lost. But yet he felt that his own dignity required some
reference to himself. It was distasteful to him that his father-
in-law should regard him,--or, at any rate, that he should speak
of him,--as a pauper, unable to provide a home for his own wife.
'Emily's notion in suggesting it, sir,' he said, 'has been her
care for her comfort.' The barrister turned round and looked at
him, and Lopez did not quite like the look. 'It was she thought
of it first, and she certainly had no other idea than that. When
she mentioned it to me, I was delighted to agree.'
Emily heard it all and blushed. It was not absolutely untrue in
words,--this assertion of her husband's,--but altogether false
in spirit. And yet she could not contradict him. 'I don't see
why it should not do very well indeed,' said Mrs Roby.
'I hope it may,' said the barrister. 'Come, Emily, I must take
you down to dinner to-day. You are not at home yet, you know.
As you are to come, the sooner the better.'
During dinner not a word was said on the subject. Lopez exerted
himself to be pleasant, and told all that he had heard as to the
difficulties of the Cabinet. Sir Orlando had resigned, and the
general opinion was that the Coalition was going to pieces. Had
Mr Wharton seen the last article in the "People's Banner" about
the Duke? Lopez was strongly of the opinion that Mr Wharton ought
to see that article. 'I never had the "People's Banner" within
my fingers in my life,' said the barrister angrily, 'and I
certainly never will.'
'Ah, sir; this is an exception. You shall see this. When Slide
really means to cut a fellow up, he can do it. There's no one
like him. And the Duke has deserved it. He's a poor,
vacillating creature, led by the Duchess; and she,--according to
all that one hears,--she isn't much better than she should be.'
'I thought the Duchess was a great friend of yours.'
'I don't care much for such friendship. She threw me over most
shamefully.'
'And therefore you are justified in taking away her character. I
never saw the Duchess of Omnium in my life, and should probably
be very uncomfortable if I found myself in her society; but I
believe her to be a good woman in her way.' Emily sat perfectly
silent, knowing that her husband had been rebuked, but feeling
that he had deserved it. He, however, was not abashed; but
changed the conversation, dashing into city rumours, and legal
reforms. The old man from time to time said sharp little things,
showing that his intellect was not senile, all of which his son-
in-law bore imperturbably. It was not that he liked it, or was
indifferent, but that he knew he could not get the good things
which Mr Wharton could do for him without making some kind of
payment. He must take the sharp words of the old man,--and take
all that he could get besides.
When the two men were alone together after dinner, Mr Wharton
used a different tone. 'If you are to come,' he said, 'you might
as well do it as soon as possible.'
'A day or two will be enough for us.'
'There are one or two things you should understand. I shall be
very happy to see your friends at any time, but I shall like to
know when they are coming before they come.'
'Of course, sir.'
'I dine out a good deal.'
'At the club,' suggested Lopez.
'Well;--at the club or elsewhere. It doesn't matter. There
will always be dinner for you and Emily, just as though I were at
home. I say this, so that there need be no questioning's or
doubts about it hereafter. And don't let there ever be any
question of money between us.'
'Certainly not.'
'Everett has an allowance, and this will be tantamount to an
allowance to Emily. You have also had 3,500 pounds. I hope it
has been well expended;--except the 500 pounds at that election,
which has, of course, been thrown away.'
'The other was brought into the business.'
'I don't know what the business is. But you and Emily must
understand that the money has been given as her fortune.'
'Oh, quite so;--part of it, you mean.'
'I mean just what I say.'
'I call it part of it, because, as you observed just now, our
living here will be the same as though made Emily an allowance.'
'Ah;--well; you can look at it in that light, if you please.
John has the key to the cellar. He's a man I can trust. As a
rule I have port and sherry at table every day. If you like
claret, I will get some a little cheaper than what I use when
friends are here.'
'What wine I have is indifferent to me.'
'I like it good, and I have it good. I always breakfast at 9.30.
You can have yours earlier if you please. I don't know that
there's anything else to be said. I hope we shall get into the
way of understanding each other, and being mutually comfortable.
Shall we go upstairs to Emily and Mrs Roby?' And so it was
determined that Emily was to come back to her old house about
eight months after her marriage.
Mr Wharton himself sat late into the night all alone, thinking
about it. What had he done, he had done in a morose way, and he
was aware that it was so. He had not beamed with smiles, and
opened his arms lovingly, and, bidding God bless his dearest
children, told them that if they would only come and sit round
his hearth he should be the happiest old man in London. He had
said little or nothing of his own affection even for his
daughter, but had spoken of the matter as one which the pecuniary
aspect alone was important. He had found out that the saving so
effected would be material to Lopez, and had resolved that there
should be no shirking of the truth in what he was prepared to do.
He had been almost asked to take the young married couple in, and
feed them,--so that they might live free of expense. He was
willing to do it,--but was not willing that there should be any
soft-worded, high-toned false pretension. He almost read Lopez
to the bottom,--not, however giving the man credit for
dishonesty so deep or cleverness so great as he possessed. But
as regarded Emily, he was so actuated by a personal desire to
have her back again as an element of happiness to himself. He
had pined for her since he had been left alone, hardly knowing
what it was that he had wanted. And how as he thought of it all,
he was angry with himself that he had not been more loving and
softer in his manner to her. She at any rate was honest. No
doubt of that crossed his mind. And now he had been bitter to
her,--bitter in his manner,--simply because he had not wished
to appear to have been taken in by her husband. Thinking of all
this, he got up, and went to his desk, and wrote her a note,
which she would receive on the following morning after her
husband had left her. It was very short.
DEAREST E.
I am so overjoyed that you are coming back to me.
A.W.
He had judged her quite rightly. The manner in which the thing
had been arranged had made her very wretched. There had been no
love in it;--nothing apparently but assertions on the one side
that much was being given, and on the other acknowledgments that
much was to be received. She was aware that in this her father
had condemned her husband. She also had condemned him;--and
felt, alas, that she also had been condemned. But this little
letter took away that sting. She could read into her father's
note all the action of his mind. He had known that he was bound
to acquit her, and he had done so with one of the old long-valued
expressions of his love.
VOLUME III
CHAPTER 41
THE VALUE OF A THICK SKIN.
Sir Orlando Drought must have felt bitterly the quiescence with
which he sank into obscurity on the second bench on the opposite
side of the House. One great occasion he had on which it was his
privilege to explain to four or five hundred gentlemen the
insuperable reasons which caused him to break away from those
right honourable friends to act with whom had been his comfort
and his duty, his great joy and his unalloyed satisfaction. Then
he occupied the best part of an hour in abusing those friends and
all their measures. This no doubt had been a pleasure, as
practice had made the manipulation of words easy to him,--and he
was able to reveal in that absence of responsibility which must
be as a fresh perfumed bath to a minister just freed from the
trammels of office. But the pleasure was surely followed by much
suffering when Mr Monk,--Mr Monk was to assume his place as
Leader of the House,--only took five minutes to answer him,
saying that he and his colleagues regretted much the loss of the
Right Honourable Baronet's services, but that it would hardly be
necessary for him to defend the Ministry on all those points on
which it had been attacked, as, were he to do so, he would have
to repeat the arguments by which every measure brought forward by
the present Ministry had been supported. Then Mr Monk sat down,
and the business of the House went on just as if Sir Orlando had
not moved his seat at all.
'What makes everybody and everything so dead?' said Sir Orlando
to his old friend Mr Boffin as they walked home together from the
House that night. They had in former days been staunch friends,
sitting night after night close together, united in opposition,
and sometimes a few halcyon months in the happier bonds of
office. But when Sir Orlando had joined the Coalition, and when
the sterner spirit of Mr Boffin had preferred principles to
place,--to use the language in which he was wont to speak to
himself and to his wife and family of his own abnegation,--there
had come a coolness between them. Mr Boffin, who was not a rich
man, nor by any means indifferent to the comforts of office, had
felt keenly the injury done to him when he was left hopelessly in
the cold by the desertion of his old friends. It had come to
pass that there had been no salt left in the opposition. Mr
Boffin in all his parliamentary experience had known nothing like
it. Mr Boffin had been sure that British honour was going to the
dogs and that British greatness was at an end. But the secession
of Sir Orlando gave a little fillip to his life. At any rate he
could walk home with his old friend and talk of the horrors of
the present day.
'Well, Drought, if you ask me, you know, I can only speak as I
feel. Everything must be dead when men holding different
opinions on every subject under the sun come together in order
that they may carry on a government as they would a trade
business. The work may be done, but it must be done without
spirit.'
'But it may be all important that the work should be done,' said
the Baronet, apologizing for his past misconduct.
'No doubt,--and I am very far from judging those who make the
attempt. It has been made more than once before, and has, I
think, always failed. I don't believe in it myself, and I think
that the death-like torpor of which you speak is one of its worst
consequences.' After that Mr Boffin admitted Sir Orlando back
into his heart of hearts.
Then the end of the Session came, very quietly and very early.
By the end of July there was nothing left to be done, and the
world of London was allowed to go down into the country almost a
fortnight before its usual time.
With many men, both in and out of Parliament, it became a
question whether all this was for good or evil. The Boffinites
had of course much to say for themselves. Everything was torpid.
There was no interest in the newspapers,--except when Mr Slide
took the tomahawk into his hands. A member of Parliament this
Session had not been by half so much bigger than another man as
in times of hot political warfare. One of the most moving
sources of our national excitement seemed to have vanished from
life. We all know what happens to stagnant waters. So said the
Boffinites, and so also now said Sir Orlando. But the Government
was carried on and the country was prosperous. A few useful
measures had been passed by unambitious men, and the Duke of St
Bungay declared that he had never known a Session of Parliament
more thoroughly satisfactory to the ministers.
But the old Duke in so saying had spoken as it were his public
opinion,--giving, truly enough, to a few of his colleagues, such
as Lord Drummond, Sir Gregory Grogram and others, the results of
his general experience, but in his own bosom and with a private
friend he was compelled to confess that there was a cloud in the
heavens. The Prime Minister had become so moody, so irritable,
and so unhappy, that the old Duke was forced to doubt whether
things could go on much longer as they were. He was wont to talk
of these things to his friend Lord Cantrip, who was not a member
of the Government, but who had been a colleague of both the
Dukes, and whom the old Duke regarded with peculiar confidence.
'I cannot explain it to you,' he said to Lord Cantrip. 'There is
nothing that ought to give him a moment's uneasiness. Since he
took office there hasn't once been a majority against him in
either House on any question that the Government has made on its
own. I don't remember such a state of things,--so easy for the
Prime Minister,--since the days of Lord Liverpool. He had one
thorn in his side, our friend who was at the Admiralty, and that
thorn like other thorns has worked itself out. Yet at this moment
it is impossible to get him to consent to the nomination of a
successor to Sir Orlando.' This was said a week before the
Session had closed.
'I suppose it is his health,' said Lord Cantrip.
'He's well enough as far as I can see;--though he will be ill
unless he can relieve himself from the strain of his nerves.'
'Do you mean by resigning?'
'Not necessarily. The fault is that he takes things too
seriously. If he could be got to believe that he might eat, and
sleep, and go to bed, and amuse himself like other men, he might
be a very good Prime Minister. He is over troubled by his
conscience. I have seen a good many Prime Ministers, Cantrip,
and I've taught myself to think that they are not very different
from other men. One wants in a Prime Minister a good many
things, but not very great things. He should be clever but need
not be a genius; he should be conscientious but by no means
strait-laced; he should be cautious but never timid, bold but
never venturesome; he should have a good digestion, genial
manners, and, above all, a thick skin. These are the gifts we
want, but we can't always get them, and have to do without them.
For my own part, I find that though Smith be a very good
Minister, the best perhaps to be had at the time, when he breaks
down Jones does nearly as well.'
'There will be a Jones, then, if your Smith does break down?'
'No doubt England wouldn't come to an end because the Duke of
Omnium shut himself up at Matching. But I love the man, and,
with some few exceptions, am contented with the party. We can't
do better, and it cuts me to the heart when I see him suffering,
knowing how much I did myself to make him undertake the work.'
'Is he going to Gatherum Castle?'
'No;--to Matching. There is some discomfort about that.'
'I suppose,' said Lord Cantrip,--speaking almost in a whisper,
although they were closeted together,--'I suppose the Duchess is
a little troublesome.'
'She's the dearest woman in the world,' said the Duke of St
Bungay. 'I love her almost as I do my own daughter. And she is
most zealous to serve him.'
'I fancy she overdoes it.'
'No doubt.'
'And that he suffers from perceiving it,' said Lord Cantrip.
'But a man hasn't a right to suppose that he shall have no
annoyances. The best horse in the world has some faults. He
pulls, or he shies, or is slow at his fences, or doesn't like
heavy ground. He has not right to expect that his wife shall know
everything and do everything without a mistake. And then he has
such faults of his own! His skin is so thin. Do you remember
dear old Brock? By heavens,--there was a covering, a hide
impervious to fire or steel! He wouldn't have gone into tantrums
because his wife asked too may people to the house.
Nevertheless, I won't give up all hope.'
'A man's skin may be thickened, I suppose.'
'No doubt;--as a blacksmith's arm.'
But the Duke of St Bungay, though he declared that he wouldn't
give up hope, was very uneasy on the matter. 'Why don't you let
me go?' the other Duke had said to him.
'What;--because such a man as Sir Orlando Drought throws up his
office?'
But in truth the Duke of Omnium had not been instigated to ask
the question by the resignation of Sir Orlando. At that very
moment the "People's Banner" had been put out of sight at the
bottom of a heap of other newspapers behind the Prime Minister's
chair, and his present misery had been produced by Mr Quintus
Slide. To have a festering wound and to be able to show the wound
to no surgeon, is wretchedness indeed! 'It's not Sir Orlando,
but a sense of general failure,' said the Prime Minister. Then
his old friend had made use of that argument of the ever-
recurring majorities to prove that there had been no failure.
'There seems to have come a lethargy upon the country,' said the
poor victim. Then the Duke of St Bungay knew that his friend had
read that pernicious article in the "People's Banner", for the
Duke had also read it and remembered that phrase of a 'lethargy
on the country', and understood at once how the poison had
rankled.
It was a week before he would consent to ask any man to fill the
vacancy made by Sir Orlando. He would not allow suggestions to
be made to him and yet would name no one himself. The old Duke,
indeed, did make a suggestion, and anything coming from him was
of course borne with patience. Barrington Erle, he thought,
would do for the Admiralty. But the Prime Minister shook his
head. 'In the first place he would refuse, and that would be a
great blow to me.'
'I could sound him,' said the old Duke. But the Prime Minister
again shook his head and turned the subject. With all his
timidity he was becoming autocratic and peevishly imperious.
Then he went to Lord Cantrip, and when Lord Cantrip, with all the
kindness which he could throw into his words, stated the reasons
which induced him at present to decline office, he was again in
despair. At last he asked Phineas Finn to move to the Admiralty,
and, when our old friend somewhat reluctantly obeyed, of course
he had the same difficulty in filling the office Finn had held.
Other changes and other complications became necessary, and Mr
Quintus Slide, who hated Phineas Finn even worse than the poor
Duke, found ample scope for his patriotic indignation.
This all took place in the closing week of the Session, filling
our poor Prime Minister with trouble and dismay, just when other
people were complaining that there was nothing to think of and
nothing to do. Men do not really like leaving London before the
grouse calls them,--the grouse or rather the fashion of the
grouse. And some ladies were very angry at being separated so
soon from their swains in the city. The tradesmen too were
displeased,--so that there were voices to re-echo the abuse of
the "People's Banner". The Duchess had done her best to prolong
the Session by another week, telling her husband of the evil
consequences above suggested, but he had thrown wide his arms and
asked her with affected dismay whether he was to keep Parliament
sitting in order that more ribbons might be sold! 'There is
nothing to be done,' said the Duke almost angrily.
'Then you should make something to be done,' said the Duchess,
mimicking him.
CHAPTER 42
RETRIBUTION.
The Duchess had been at work with her husband for the last two
months in the hope of renewing her autumnal festivities, but had
been lamentably unsuccessful. The Duke had declared that there
should be no more rural crowds, no repetition of what he called
London turned loose on his own grounds. He could not forget the
necessity which had been imposed upon him of turning Major
Pountney out of his house, or the change that had been made in
his gardens, or his wife's attempt to conquer him at
Silverbridge. 'Do you mean,' she said, 'that we are to have
nobody?' He replied that he thought it would be best to go to
Matching. 'And live a Darby and Joan life?' said the Duchess.
'I said nothing of Darby and Joan. Whatever may be my feelings I
hardly think that you are fitted for that kind of thing.
Matching is not so big as Gatherum, but it is not a cottage. Of
course you can ask your own friends.'
'I don't know what you mean by my own friends. I endeavour
always to ask yours.'
'I don't know that Major Pountney, and Captain Gunner, and Mr
Lopez were ever among the number of my friends.'
'I suppose you mean Lady Rosina?' said the Duchess. 'I shall be
happy to have her at Matching, if you wish it.'
'I should like to see Lady Rosina De Courcy at Matching very
much.'
'And is there to be nobody else? I'm afraid I should find it
rather dull while you two were opening your hearts to each
other.' Here he looked at her angrily. 'Can you think of
anybody besides Lady Rosina?'
'I suppose you will wish to have Mrs Finn.'
'What an arrangement! Lady Rosina for you to flirt with, and Mrs
Finn for me to grumble to.'
'That is an odious word,' said the Prime Minister.
'What;--flirting? I don't see anything bad about the word. The
thing is dangerous. But you are quite at liberty if you don't go
beyond Lady Rosina. I should like to know whether you would wish
anybody else to come?' Of course he made no becoming answer to
this question, and of course no becoming answer was expected. He
knew that she was trying to provoke him because he would not let
her do this year as she had done last. The house, he had no
doubt, would be full to overflowing when he got there. He could
not help that. But as compared with Gatherum Castle the house at
Matching was small, and his domestic authority sufficed at any
rate for shutting up Gatherum for the time.
I do not know whether at times her sufferings were not as acute
as his own. He, at any rate, was Prime Minister, and it seemed
to her that she was to be reduced to nothing. At the beginning
of it all he had, with unwonted tenderness asked her for her
sympathy in his undertaking, and, according to her power, she had
given it to him with her whole heart. She had thought that she
had seen a way by which she might assist him in his great
employment, and she had worked at it like a slave. Every day she
told herself that she did not, herself, love the Captain Gunners
and Major Pountneys, nor the Sir Orlandos, nor, indeed the Lady
Rosinas. She had not followed the bent of her own inclination
when she had descended to sheets and towels, and busied herself
to establish an archery-ground. She had not shot an arrow during
the whole season, nor had she cared who had won and who had lost.
It had not been for her own personal delight that she had kept
open house for forty persons throughout four months of the year,
in doing which he had never taken an ounce of labour off her
shoulders by any single word or deed! It had all been done for
his sake,--that his reign might be long and triumphant, that the
world might say that his hospitality was noble and full, that his
name might be in men's mouths, and that he might prosper as a
British Minister. Such, at least, were the assertions which she
made to herself, when she thought of her own grievances and her
own troubles. And how she was angry with her husband. It was
very well for him to ask for her sympathy, but he had none to
give her in return! He could not pity her failures,--even
though he had himself caused them! If he had a grain of
intelligence about him he must, she thought, understand well
enough how sore it must be for her to descend from her princely
entertainments to solitude at Matching, and thus to own before
all the world that she was beaten. Then when she asked him for
advice, when she was really anxious to know how far she might go
in filling her house without offending him, he told her to ask
Lady Rosina De Courcy! If he chose to be ridiculous he might.
She would ask Lady Rosina De Courcy. In her active anger she did
write to Lady Rosina De Courcy a formal letter, in which she said
that the Duke hoped to have the pleasure of her ladyship's
company at Matching Park on the 1st August. It was an absurd
letter, somewhat long, written very much in the Duke's name, with
overwhelming expressions of affection, instigated in the writer's
mind partly by the fun of supposition that such a man as her
husband should flirt with such a woman as Lady Rosina. There was
something too of anger in what she wrote, some touch of revenge.
She sent off this invitation, and she sent no other. Lady Rosina
took it all in good part, and replied saying that she should have
the greatest pleasure in going to Matching! She had declared to
herself that she would ask none but those he had named, and in
accordance with her resolution she sent out no other written
invitation.
He had also told her to ask Mrs Finn. Now this had become almost
a matter of course. There had grown up from accidental
circumstances so strong a bond between these two women, that it
was taken for granted by both their husbands that they should be
nearly always within reach of one another. And the two husbands
were also on kindly, if not affectionate, terms with each other.
The nature of the Duke's character was such that, with a most
loving heart, he was hardly capable of that opening out of
himself to another which is necessary for positive friendship.
There was a stiff reserve about him, of which he was himself only
too conscious, which almost prohibited friendship. But he liked
Mr Finn both as a man and a member of his party, and was always
satisfied to have him as a guest. The Duchess, therefore, had
taken it for granted that Mrs Finn would come to her,--and that
Mr Finn would come also any time that he might be able to escape
from Ireland. But, when the invitation was verbally conveyed, Mr
Finn had gone to the Admiralty, and had already made arrangements
for going to sea, as a gallant sailor should. 'We are going away
in the "Black Watch" for a couple of months,' said Mrs Finn. Now
the "Black Watch" was an Admiralty yacht.
'Heavens and earth!' ejaculated the Duchess.
'It is always done. The First Lord would have his epaulets
stripped if he didn't go to sea in August.'
'And must you go with him?'
'I have promised.'
'I think it very unkind,--very hard upon me. Of course you know
that I should want you.'
'But if my husband wants me too?'
'Bother your husband! I wish with all my heart I had never
helped make up the match.'
'It would have been made up all the same, Lady Glen.'
'You know that I cannot get on without you. And he ought to know
it too. There isn't another person in the world that I can
really say a thing to.'
'Why don't you have Mrs Grey?'
'She's going to Persia with her husband. And then she is not
wicked enough. She always lectured me, and she does it still.
What do you think is going to happen?'
'Nothing terrible, I hope,' said Mrs Finn, mindful of her
husband's new honours at the Admiralty, and hoping that the Duke
might not have repeated his threat of resigning.
'We are going to Matching.'
'So I supposed.'
'And whom do you think we are going to have?'
'Not Major Pountney?'
'No;--not at my asking.'
'Not Mr Lopez?'
'Nor yet Mr Lopez. Guess again.'
'I suppose there will be a dozen to guess.'
'No,' shrieked the Duchess. 'There will only be one. I have
asked one,--at his special desire,--and as you won't come I
shall ask nobody else. When I pressed him to name a second he
named you. I'll obey him to the letter. Now, my dear, who do
you think is the chosen one,--the one person who is to
solace the perturbed spirit of the Prime Minister for the three
months of the autumn.'
'Mr Warburton, I should say.'
'Oh, Mr Warburton! No doubt Mr Warburton will come as part of
his luggage and possibly half-a-dozen Treasury clerks. He
declares, however, that there is nothing to do, and therefore Mr
Warburton's strength alone may suffice to help him to do it.
There is to be one unnecessary guest,--unnecessary, that is, for
official purpose, though,--oh,--so much needed for his social
happiness. Guess one more.'
'Knowing the spirit of mischief that is in you,--perhaps it is
Lady Rosina.'
'Of course it is Lady Rosina,' said the Duchess, clapping her
hands together. 'And I should like to know what you mean by
spirit of mischief! I asked him, and he himself said that he
particularly wished to have Lady Rosina at Matching. Now, I'm
not a jealous woman,--am I?'
'Not of Lady Rosina.'
'I don't think they'll do any harm together, but it is
particular, you know. However, she is to come. And nobody else
is to come. I did count upon you.' Then Mrs Finn counselled her
very seriously as to the taste of such a joke, explaining to her
that the Duke had certainly not intended that invitations should
be confined to Lady Rosina. But it was not all joke with the
Duchess. She had been driven almost to despair, and was very
angry with her husband. He had brought the thing upon himself,
and must now make the best of it. She would ask nobody else.
She declared that there was nobody whom she could ask with
propriety. She was tired of asking. Let her ask whom she would,
he was dissatisfied. The only two people he cared to see were
Lady Rosina and the old Duke. She had asked Lady Rosina for his
sake. Let him ask his old friend himself if he pleased.
The Duke and Duchess with all the family went down together, and
Mr Warburton went with them. The Duchess had said not a word
more to her husband about his guests, nor had he alluded to the
subject. But each was labouring under a conviction that the
other was misbehaving, and with that feeling it was impossible
that there should be confidence between them. He busied himself
with books and papers,--always turning over those piles of
newspapers to see what evil was said of himself,--and speaking
only now and again to his private secretary. She engaged herself
with the children or pretended to read a novel. Her heart was
sore within her. She had wished to punish him, but in truth she
was punishing herself.
On the day of their arrival, the father and mother, with Lord
Silverbridge, the eldest son, who was from Eton, and the private
Secretary dined together. As the Duke sat at table, he began to
think how long it was since such a state of things had happened
before, and his heart softened towards her. Instead of being made
angry by the strangeness of the proceeding, he took delight in
it, and in the course of the evening spoke a word to signify his
satisfaction. 'I'm afraid it won't last long,' she said, 'for
Lady Rosina comes tomorrow.'
'Oh, indeed.'
'You bid me to ask her yourself.'
Then he perceived it all;--how she had taken advantage of his
former answer to her and had acted upon it in a spirit of
contradictory petulance. But he resolved that he would forgive
it and endeavour to bring her back to him. 'I thought we were
both joking,' he said good-humouredly.
'Oh no! I never suspected you of a joke. At any rate she is
coming.'
'She will do neither of us any harm. And Mrs Finn?'
'You have sent her to sea.'
'She may be at sea,--and he too; but it is without my sending.
The First Lord, I believe, usually does go a cruise. Is there
nobody else?'
'Nobody else,--unless you have asked anyone.'
'Not a creature. Well;--so much the better. I dare say Lady
Rosina will get on very well.'
'You will have to talk to her,' said the Duchess.
'I will do my best.'
Lady Rosina came and no doubt did think it odd. But she did not
say so, and it really did seem to the Duchess as though all her
vengeance had been blown away by the winds. And she too laughed
at the matter,--to herself and began to feel less cross and less
perverse. The world did not come to an end because she and her
husband with Lady Rosina and her boy and the private Secretary
sat down to dinner every day together. The parish clergyman with
the neighbouring squire and his wife and daughter did come one
day,--to the relief of M. Millepois, who had begun to feel that
the world had collapsed. And every day at a certain hour the
Duke and Lady Rosina walked together for an hour and a half in
the Park. The Duchess would have enjoyed it, instead of
suffering, could she only have had her friend, Mrs Finn, to hear
her jokes. 'Now, Plantagenet,' she said, 'do tell me one thing.
What does she talk about?'
'The troubles of her family generally, I think.'
'That can't last for ever.'
'She wears cork soles to her boots and she thinks a good deal
about them.'
'And you listen to her?'
'Why not? I can talk about cork soles as well as anything else.
Anything that may do material good to the world at large, or even
to yourself privately, is a fit subject for conversation to
rational people.'
'I suppose I never was one of them.'
'But I can talk upon anything,' continued the Duke, 'as long as
the talker talks in good faith and does not say things that
should not be said, or deal with matters that are offensive. I
could talk for an hour about bankers' accounts, but I should not
expect a stranger to ask me the state of my own. She almost
persuaded me to send to Mr Sprout of Silverbridge and get some
cork soles of my own.'
'Don't do anything of the kind,' said the Duchess with animation;
--as though she had secret knowledge that cork soles were
specially fatal to the family of the Pallisers.
'Why not, my dear?'
'He was a man who especially, above all others, threw me over at
Silverbridge.' Then again there came upon his brow that angry
frown which during the last few days had been dissipated by the
innocence of Lady Rosina's conversation. 'Of course I don't mean
to ask you to take any interest in the borough again. You have
said that you wouldn't, and you are always as good as your word.'
'I hope so.'
'But I certainly would not employ a tradesman just at your elbow
who has directly opposed what was generally understood in the
town to be your interests.'
'What did Mr Sprout do? This is the first I have heard of it.'
'He got Mr Du Boung to stand against Mr Lopez.'
'I am very glad for the sake of the borough that Mr Lopez did not
get in.'
'So am I. But that has nothing to do with it. Mr Sprout knew at
any rate what my wishes were, and went directly against them.'
'You were not entitled to have wishes in the matter, Glencora.'
'That's all very well;--but I had, and he knew it. As for the
future, of course the thing is over. But you have done
everything for the borough.'
'You mean the borough has done much for me.'
'I know what I mean very well;--and I shall take it very ill if
a shilling out of the Castle ever goes into Mr Sprout's pocket
again.'
It is needless to trouble the reader at length with the sermon
which he preached her on the occasion,--showing the utter
corruption which must come from the mixing up of politics with
trade, or with the scorn which she threw into the few words with
which she interrupted him from time to time. 'Whether a man
makes good shoes, at a reasonable price, and charges for them
honestly,--that is what you have to consider,' said the Duke
impressively.
'I'd rather pay double for bad shoes to a man who did not thwart
me.'
'You should not condescend to be thwarted in such a matter. You
lower yourself by admitting such a feeling.' And yet he writhed
himself under the lashes of Mr Slide!
'I know an enemy when I see him,' said the Duchess, 'and as long
as I live I'll treat an enemy as an enemy.'
There was ever so much of it, in the course of which the Duke
declared his purpose of sending at once to Mr Sprout for ever so
many cork soles, and the Duchess,--most imprudently,--declared
her purpose of ruining Mr Sprout. There was something in this
threat which grated terribly against the Duke's sense of honour;
--that his wife should threaten to ruin a poor tradesman, that
she should do so in reference to the political affairs of the
borough which he all but owned, that she should do so in declared
opposition to him! Of course he ought to have known that her sin
consisted simply in her determination to vex him at the moment.
A more good-natured woman did not live;--or one less prone to
ruin anyone. But any reference to the Silverbridge election
brought back upon him the remembrance of the cruel attacks which
had been made upon him, and rendered him for the time moody,
morose, and wretched. So they again parted ill friends, and
hardly spoke when they met at dinner.
The next morning there reached Matching a letter which greatly
added to his bitterness of spirit against the world in general
and against her in particular. The letter, though marked
'private', had been opened, as were all letters, by Mr Warburton,
but the private Secretary thought it necessary to show the letter
to the Prime Minister. He, when he had read it, told Warburton
that it did not signify, and maintained for half an hour an
attitude of quiescence. Then he walked forth, having the letter
hidden in his hand, and finding his wife alone, gave it her to
read. 'See what you have brought upon me,' he said, 'by your
interference and disobedience.' The letter was as follows:
Manchester Square, August 3, 187-
MY LORD DUKE,
I consider myself entitled to complain to your Grace of
the conduct with which I am treated at the last election
at Silverbridge, whereby I was led into very heavy
expenditure without the least chance of being returned
for the borough. I am aware that I had no direct
conversation with your Grace on the subject, and that
your Grace can plead that, as between man and man, I had
no authority from yourself for supposing that I should
receive your Grace's support. But I was distinctly asked
by the Duchess to stand, and was assured by her that if I
did so I should have all the assistance that your Grace's
influence could procure for me;--and it was also
explained to me that your Grace's official position made
it inexpedient that your Grace on this special occasion
should have any personal conference with your own
candidate. Under these circumstances I submit to your
Grace that I am entitled to complain of the hardship I
have suffered.
I had not been long in the borough before I found that my
position was hopeless. Influential men in the town who
had been represented to me as being altogether devoted to
your Grace's interests started a third candidate,--a
Liberal as myself,--and the natural consequence was that
neither of us succeeded, though my return as your Grace's
candidate would have been certain had not this been done.
That all this was preconcerted there can be no doubt,
but, before the mine was sprung on me,--immediately,
indeed, on my arrival, if I remember rightly,--an
application was made to me for 500 pounds, so that the
money might be exacted before the truth was known to me.
Of course I should not have paid the 500 pounds had I
known that your Grace's usual agents in the town,--I may
name Mr Sprout especially,--were prepared to act against
me. But I did pay the money, and I think your Grace will
agree with me that a very opprobrious term might be
applied without injustice to the transaction.
My Lord Duke, I am a poor man,--ambitious I will own,
whether that be a sin or a virtue,--and willing, perhaps
to incur expenditure which can hardly be justified in
pursuit of certain public objects. But I do not feel
inclined to sit down tamely under such a loss as this. I
should not have dreamed of interfering in the election at
Silverbridge had not the Duchess exhorted me to do so. I
would not even run the risk of a doubtful contest. But I
came forward at the suggestion of the Duchess, backed by
the personal assurance that the seat was certain as being
in your Grace's hands. It was no doubt understood that
your Grace would not yourself interfere, but it was
equally well understood that your Grace's influence was
for the time deputed to the Duchess. The Duchess herself
will, I am sure, confirm my statement that I had her
distinct authority for regarding myself as your Grace's
candidate.
I can of course bring an action against Mr Wise, the
gentleman to whom I paid the money, but I feel that as a
gentleman I should not do so without reference to your
Grace, as circumstances might possibly be brought out in
evidence,--I will not say prejudicial to your Grace,-
but which would be unbecoming. I cannot, however, think
that your Grace will be willing that a poor man like
myself, in search for an entrance into public life,
should be mulcted to so heavy an extent in consequence of
an error on the part of the Duchess. Should your Grace
be able to assist me in my view of getting into
Parliament for any other seat I shall be willing to abide
by the loss I have incurred. I hardly, however,
dare to hope for such assistance. In this case I think
your grace ought to see that I am reimbursed.
I have the honour to be,
My Lord Duke,
Your Grace's faithful Servant
FERDINAND LOPEZ
The Duke stood over her in her own room upstairs, with his back
to the fireplace and his eyes fixed upon her while she was
reading this letter. He gave her ample time, and she did not
read it very quickly. Much of it indeed she perused twice,
turning very red in the face as she did so. She was thus
studious partly because the letter astounded even her, and partly
because she wanted time to consider how she would meet his wrath.
'Well,' said he, 'what do you say to that?'
'The man is a blackguard,--of course.'
'He is so;--though I do not know that I wish to hear him called
such a name by your lips. Let him be what he may he was your
friend.'
'He was my acquaintance.'
'He was the man whom you selected to be your candidate for the
borough in opposition to my wishes, and whom you continued to
support in direct disobedience to my orders.'
'Surely, Plantagenet, we had all that about disobedience out
before.'
'You cannot have such things "out",--as you call it. Evil-doing
will not bury itself out of the way and be done with. Do you
feel no shame at having your name mentioned a score of times with
reprobation as that man mentions it,--at being written about by
such a man as that?'
'Do you want me to roll in the gutter because I mistook him for a
gentleman?'
'That was not all,--nor half. In your eagerness to serve such a
miserable creature as this you forgot my entreaties, my commands,
my position! I explained to you why, I, of all men, and you, of
all women, as part of me, should not do this thing, and yet you
did it, mistaking such a cur for a man! What am I to do? How am
I to free myself from the impediments which you make for me? My
enemies I can overcome,--but I cannot escape the pitfalls which
are made for me by my own wife. I can only retire into private
life and hope to console myself with my children and my books.'
There was a reality of tragedy about him which for the moment
overcame her. She had no joke ready, no sarcasm, no feminine
counter-grumble. Little as she agreed with him when he spoke of
the necessity of retiring into private life because a man had
written to him such a letter as this, incapable as she was of
understanding fully the nature of the irritation which tormented
him, still she knew that he was suffering, and acknowledged to
herself that she had been the cause of the agony. 'I am sorry,'
she ejaculated at last. 'What more can I say?'
'What am I to do? What can be said to the man? Warburton read
the letter, and gave it me in silence. He could see the terrible
difficulty.'
'Tear it in pieces, and then let there be an end of it.'
'I do not feel sure but that he has right on his side. He is, as
you say, certainly a blackguard, or he would not make such a
claim. He is taking advantage of the mistake made by a good-
natured woman through her folly and her vanity;'--as he said
this the Duchess gave an absurd little pout, but luckily he did
not see it,--'and he knows very well that he is doing so. But
still he has a show of justice on his side. There was, I
suppose, no chance for him at Silverbridge after I had made
myself fully understood. The money was absolutely wasted. It
was your persuasion and your continued encouragement that led him
to spend the money.'
'Pay it then. The loss will not hurt you.'
'Ah;--if we could but get out of our difficulty by paying!
Suppose that I do pay it. I begin to think that I must pay it,--
that after all I cannot allow such a plea to remain unanswered.
But when it is paid;--what then? Do you think such a payment
made by the Queen's Minister will not be known to all the
newspapers, and that I shall escape the charge of having bribed
the man to hold his tongue?'
'It will be no bribe if you pay him because you think you ought.'
'But how shall I excuse it? There are things done which are holy
as the heavens,--which are clear before God as the light of the
sun, which leave no stain on the conscience, and which yet the
malignity of man can invest with the very blackest of hell! I
shall know why I pay this 500 pounds. Because she who of all the
world is the nearest and dearest to me,'--she looked up into his
face with amazement, as he stood stretching his arms out in
energy,--'has in her impetuous folly committed a grievous
blunder, from which she would not allow her husband to save her,
this sum must be paid to the wretched craven. But I cannot tell
the world that. I cannot say abroad that this small sacrifice of
money was the justest means of retrieving the injury which you
have done.'
'Say it abroad. Say it everywhere.'
'No, Glencora.'
'Do you think I would have you spare me if it was my fault? And
how would it hurt me? Will it be new to anyone that I have done
a foolish thing? Will the newspapers disturb my peace? I
sometimes think, Plantagenet, that I should have been the man, my
skin is so thick; and that you should have been the woman, your
is so tender.'
'But it is not so.'
'Take the advantage, nevertheless, of my toughness. Send him the
500 pounds without a word,--or make Warburton do so, or Mr
Moreton. Make no secret of it. Then if the papers talk about
it-'
'A question might be asked about it in the House.'
'Or if questioned in any way,--say what I did. Tell the exact
truth. You are always saying that nothing but truth ever serves.
Let the truth serve now. I shall not blench. Your saying it all
in the House of Lords won't wound me half so much as your looking
at me as you did now.'
'Did I wound you? God knows I would not hurt you willingly.'
'Never mind. Go on. I know you think I have brought it all on
myself by my own wickedness. Pay this man the money, and then if
anything is said about it, explain that it was my fault, and say
that you paid the money because I had done wrong.'
When he came in she had been seated on a sofa, which she
constantly used herself, and he had stood over her, masterful,
imperious, and almost tyrannical. She had felt this tyranny, but
had resented it less than usual,--or rather had been less
determined in holding her own against him and asserting herself
as his equal,--because she confessed to herself that she had
injured him. She had, she thought, done but little, but that
which she had done had produced this injury. So she had sat and
endured the oppression of his standing posture. But now he sat
down by her, very close to her, and put his hand upon her
shoulder,--almost round her waist.
'Cora,' he said, 'you do not quite understand it.'
'I never understand anything, I think,' she answered.
'Not in this case,--perhaps never,--what it is that a husband
feels about his wife. Do you think that I could say a word
against you, even to a friend?'
'Why not?'
'I never did. I never could. If my anger were at the hottest I
would not confess to a human being that you were not perfect,--
except to yourself.'
'Oh, thank you! If you were to scold me vicariously I should
feel it less.'
'Do not joke with me now, for I am so much in earnest. And if I
could not consent that your conduct should be called in question
even by a friend, do you suppose it possible that I could
contrive an escape from a public censure by laying the blame
publicly on you?'
'Stick to the truth;--that's what you always say.'
'I certainly shall stick to the truth. A man and his wife are
one. For what she does he is responsible.'
'They couldn't hang you, you know, because I committed a murder.'
'I should be willing that they should do so. No;--if I pay this
money I shall take the consequences. I shall not do it in any
way under the rose. But I wish you would remember--'
'Remember what? I know I shall never forget all this trouble
about that dirty little town, which I never will enter again as
long as I live.'
'I wish you would think that in all that you do you are dealing
with my feelings, with my heartstrings, with my reputation. You
cannot divide yourself from me; nor, for the value of it all,
would I wish that such a division were possible. You say that I
am thin-skinned.'
'Certainly you are. What people call a delicate organization,--
whereas I am rough and thick and monstrously commonplace.'
'Then should you too be thin-skinned for my sake.'
'I wish I could make you thick-skinned for your own. It's the
only way to be decently comfortable in such a coarse, rough-and-
tumble world as this is.'
'Let us both do our best,' he said, now putting his arm round her
and kissing her. 'I think I shall send the man his money at
once. It is the best of two evils. And now let there never be a
word more about it between us.'
Then he left her and went back,--not to the study in which he
was wont, when at Matching, to work with his private secretary,--
but to a small inner closet of his own, in which many a bitter
moment was spent while he thought over that abortive system of
decimal coinage by which he had once hoped to make himself one of
the great benefactors of his nation, revolving in his mind the
troubles which his wife brought upon him, and regretting the
golden inanity of the coronet which in the very prime of life had
expelled him from the House of Commons. Here he seated himself,
and for an hour neither stirred from his seat, nor touched a pen,
nor opened a book. He was trying to calculate in his mind what
might be the consequences of paying the money to Mr Lopez. But
when the calculation slipped from him,--as it did,--then he
demanded of himself whether strict high-minded justice did not
call upon him to pay the money let the consequences be what they
might. And here his mind was truer to him, and he was able to
fix himself to a purpose,--though the resolution to which he
came was not, perhaps, wise.
When the hour was over he went to his desk, drew a cheque for 500
pounds in favour of Ferdinand Lopez, and then caused his
Secretary to send it in the following note:
Matching, August 4, 187-
SIR,
The Duke of Omnium has read the letter you have addressed
to him, dated the 3rd instant. The Duke of Omnium,
feeling that you may have been induced to undertake the
late contest at Silverbridge by misrepresentations made
to you at Gatherum Castle, directs me to enclose a cheque
for 500 pounds, that being the sum stated by you to have
been expended in carrying on the contest at Silverbridge.
I am, sir,
Your obedient servant,
ARTHUR WARBURTON
Ferdinand Lopez, Esq.
CHAPTER 43
KAURI GUM.
The reader will no doubt think that Ferdinand Lopez must have
been very hardly driven indeed by circumstances before he would
have made such an appeal to the Duke as given in the last
chapter. But it was not the want of money only that had brought
it about. It may be remembered that the 500 pounds had already
been once repaid him by his father-in-law,--that special sum
having been given to him for that special purpose. And Lopez,
when he wrote to the Duke, assured himself that if, by any
miracle, his letter should produce pecuniary results in the shape
of a payment from the Duke, he would refund the money so obtained
to Mr Wharton. But when he wrote the letter he did not expect to
get the money,--nor, indeed, did he expect that aid towards
another seat, to which he alluded at the close of the letter. He
expected probably nothing but to vex the Duke, and to drive the
Duke into correspondence with him.
Though this man had lived nearly all his life in England, he had
not quite acquired that knowledge of the way in which things are
done which is general among men of a certain class, and so rare
among those beneath them. He had not understood that the
Duchess's promise of her assistance at Silverbridge might be
taken by him for what it was worth, and that her aid might be
used as far as it went,--but, that in the event of its failing
him, he was bound in honour to take the result without
complaining, whatever that result might be. He felt that a
grievous injury,--even though it were against a woman. He just
knew that he could not very well write to the Duchess herself,--
though there was sometimes present to his mind a plan for
attacking her in public, and telling her what evil she had done
him. He had half resolved that he would do so in her own garden
at The Horns;--but on that occasion the apparition of Arthur
Fletcher had disturbed him, and he had vented his anger in
another direction. But still his wrath against the Duke and
Duchess remained, and he was wont to indulge it with very violent
language as he sat upon one of the chairs in Sexty Parker's
office, talking somewhat loudly of his own position, of the
things that he would do, and of the injury done him. Sexty
Parker sympathized with him to the full,--especially as that
first 500 pounds, which he had received from Mr Wharton, had gone
into Sexty's coffers. At that time Lopez and Sexty were together
committed to large speculations in the guano trade, and Sexty's
mind was by no means easy in the early periods of the day. As he
went into town by his train he would think of his wife and family
and of the terrible things that might happen to them. But yet,
up to this period, money had always been forthcoming from Lopez
when absolutely wanted, and Sexty was quite alive to the fact
that he was living with a freedom of expenditure in his own
household that he had never known before, and that without
apparent damage. Whenever, therefore, at some critical moment, a
much-needed sum of money was produced Sexty would become light-
hearted, triumphant, and very sympathetic. 'Well;--I never
heard such a story,' he had said when Lopez was insisting on his
wrongs. 'That's what the Dukes and Duchesses call honour among
thieves! Well, Ferdy, my boy, if you stand that you'll stand
anything.' In these latter days Sexty had become very intimate
with his partner.
'I don't mean to stand it,' Lopez had replied, and then on the
spot had written the letter which he had dated from Manchester
Square. He had certainly contrived to make that letter as
oppressive as possible. He had been clever enough to put into it
words which were sure to wound the poor Duke and to confound the
Duchess. And having written it he was very careful to keep the
first draft, so that if occasion came he might use it again and
push for vengeance farther. But he certainly had not expected
such a result as it produced.
When he received the private Secretary's letter with the money he
was sitting opposite his father-in-law at breakfast, while his
wife was making the tea. Not many of his letters came to
Manchester Square. Sexty Parker's office or his club were more
convenient addresses, but in this case he had thought that
Manchester Square would have a better sound and appearance. When
he opened the letter the cheque of course appeared bearing the
Duke's own signature. He had seen that and the amount before he
had read the letter, and as he saw it his eye travelled quickly
across the table to his father-in-law's face. Mr Wharton might
certainly have seen the cheque and even the amount, probably also
the signature, without the slightest suspicion as to the nature
of the payment made. As it was, he was eating his toast, and had
thought nothing about the letter. Lopez, having concealed the
cheque, read the few words which the private Secretary had
written, and then put the document with its contents into his
pocket. 'So you think, sir, of going down to Hertfordshire on
the 15th,' he said in a very cheery voice. The cheery voice was
still pleasant to the old man, but the young wife had already
come to distrust it. She had learned, though she was hardly
conscious how the lesson had come to her, that a certain tone of
cheeriness indicated, if not deceit, at any rate concealment of
something. It grated against her spirit, and when this tone
reached her ears a frown or look of sorrow would come cross her
brow. And her husband also had perceived that it was so, and
knew at such times that he was rebuked. He was hardly aware what
doings, and especially what feelings, were imputed to him as
faults,--not understanding the lines which separate right from
wrong, but he knew that he was often condemned by his wife, and
he lived in fear that he should also be condemned by his wife's
father. Had it been his wife only he thought that he could soon
have quenched her condemnation. He would soon have made her
tired of showing her disapproval. But he had put himself into
the old man's house, where the old man could see not only him but
his treatment of his wife, and the old man's good-will and good
opinion were essential to him. Yet he could not restrain one
glance of anger at her when she saw that look upon her face.
'I suppose I shall,' said the barrister, 'I must go somewhere.
My going need not disturb you.'
'I think we have made up our mind,' said Lopez, 'to take a
cottage at Dovercourt. It is not a very lively place, nor yet
fashionable. But it is very healthy, and I can run up to town
easily. Unfortunately my business won't let me be altogether
away this autumn.'
'I wish my business would keep me,' said the barrister.
'I did not understand that you had made up your mind to go to
Dovercourt,' said Emily. He had spoken to Mr Wharton of their
joint action in the matter, and as the place had only once been
named by him to her, she resented what seemed to be a falsehood.
She knew that she was to be taken or left as it suited him. If
he had said boldly,--'We'll go to Dovercourt. That's what I've
settled on. That's what will suit me,' she would have been
contented. She quite understood that he meant to have his own
way in such things. But it seemed to her that he wanted to be a
tyrant without having the courage for tyranny.
'I thought you seemed to like it,' he said.
'I don't dislike it at all.'
'Then, as it suits my business, we might as well consider it
settled.' So saying, he left the room and went off to the city.
The old man was still sipping his tea and lingering over his
breakfast in a way that was not usual with him. He was generally
anxious to get away to Lincoln's Inn, and on most mornings had
left the house before his son-in-law. Emily of course remained
with him, sitting silent in her place opposite to the teapot,
meditating perhaps on her prospects of happiness at Dovercourt,-
a place of which she had never heard even the name two days ago,
and in which it was hardly possible that she should find even an
acquaintance. In former years these autumn months, passed in
Hertfordshire, had been the delight of her life.
Mr Wharton also had seen the cloud on his daughter's face, and
had understood the nature of the little dialogue about
Dovercourt. And he was aware,--that the young wife's manner and
tone to her husband was not that of perfect conjugal sympathy.
He had already said to himself more than once that she had made
her bed for herself, and must lie upon it. She was the man's
wife, and must take her husband as he was. If she suffered under
this man's mode and manner of life, he, as her father, could not
assist her,--could do nothing for her, unless the man should
become absolutely cruel. He had settled that within his own mind
already;--but yet his heart yearned towards her, and when he
thought that she was unhappy, he longed to comfort her and tell
her that she still had a father. But the time had not come as
yet in which he could comfort her by sympathizing with her
against her husband. There had never fallen from her lips a
syllable of complaint. When she had spoken to him a chance word
respecting her husband, it had always carried with it some tone
of affection. But still he longed to say to her something which
might tell her that his heart was soft towards her. 'Do you like
the idea of going to this place?' he said.
'I don't at all know what it will be like. Ferdinand says it
will be cheap.'
'Is that of such a vital consequence?'
'Ah;--yes, I fear it.'
This was very sad to him. Lopez had already had from him a
considerable sum of money, having not yet been married twelve
months, and was now living in London almost free of expense.
Before his marriage he had always spoken of himself, and had
contrived to be spoken of, as a wealthy man, and now he was
obliged to choose some small English seaside place to which to
retreat, because thus he might have a low rate! Had they been
married as poor people there would have been nothing to regret in
this;--there would be nothing that might be done with entire
satisfaction. But, as it was, it told a bad tale for the future!
'Do you understand his money matters, Emily?'
'Not at all, papa.'
'I do not in the least mean to make inquiry. Perhaps I should
have asked before,--but if I did make inquiry now it would be of
him. But I think a wife should know.'
'I know nothing.'
'What is his business?'
'I have no idea. I used to think he was connected with Mr Mills
Happerton and with Messrs Hunky and Sons.'
'Is he not connected with Hunky's business?'
'I think not. He has a partner of the name of Parker, who is,--
who is not, I think, quite--quite a gentleman. I never saw
him.'
'What does he do with Mr Parker?'
'I believe they buy guano.'
'Ah;--that, I fancy, was only one affair.'
'I'm afraid he lost money, papa, by that election at
Silverbridge.'
'I paid that,' said Mr Wharton sternly. Surely he would have
told his wife that he had received that money from her family!
'Did you? That was very kind. I am afraid, papa, we are a great
burden to you.'
'I should not mind it, my dear, if there were confidence and
happiness. What matter would it be to me whether you had your
money now or hereafter, so that you might have it in the manner
that would be most beneficial to you? I wish he would be open
with me, and tell me everything.'
'Shall I let him know that you say so?'
He thought for a minute or two before he answered her. Perhaps
the man would be more impressed if the message came to him
through his wife. 'If you think that he will not be annoyed with
you, you may do so.'
'I don't know why he should,--but if it be right, that must be
borne. I am not afraid to say anything to him.'
'Then tell him so. Tell him that it will be better that he
should let me know the whole condition of his affairs. God bless
you, dear.' Then he stooped over her, and kissed her, and went
his way to Stone Buildings.
It was not as he sat at the breakfast table that Ferdinand Lopez
made up his mind to pocket the Duke's money and to say nothing
about it to Mr Wharton. He had been careful to conceal the
cheque, but he had done so with the feeling that the matter was
one to be considered in his own mind before to took any step. As
he left the house, already considering it, he was inclined to
think the money must be surrendered. Mr Wharton had very
generously paid his electioneering expenses, but had not done so
simply with the view of making him a present of money. He wished
the Duke had taken him at his word. In handing this cheque over
to Mr Wharton, he would be forced to tell the story of his letter
to the Duke, and was sure that Mr Wharton would not approve of
his having written such a letter. How could anyone approve of
his having applied for a sum of money which had already been paid
to him? How could such a one as Mr Wharton,--an old-fashioned
English gentleman,--approve of such an application being made
under any circumstances? Mr Wharton would very probably insist
on having the cheque sent back to the Duke,--which would be a
sorry end to the triumph as at present achieved. And the more he
thought of it the more he sure he was that it would be imprudent
to mention to Mr Wharton his application to the Duke. The old
men of the present day were, he said to himself, such fools that
they understood nothing. And then the money was very convenient
to him. He was intent on obtaining Sexty Parker's consent to a
large speculation, and knew that he could not do so without a
show of funds. By the time, therefore, that he had reached the
city he had resolved that at any rate for the present he would
use the money and say nothing about it to Mr Wharton. Was it not
spoil got from the enemy by his own courage and cleverness? When
he was writing his acknowledgement for the money to Warburton he
had taught himself to look upon the sum extracted from the Duke
as a matter quite distinct from the payment made to him by his
father-in-law.
It was evident on that day to Sexty Parker that his partner was a
man of great resources. Though things sometimes looked very bad,
yet money always 'turned up'. Some of their buyings and sellings
had answered pretty well. Some had been great failures. No
great stroke had been made as yet, but then the great stroke was
always being expected. Sexty's fears were greatly exaggerated by
the feeling that the coffee and guano were not always real coffee
and guano. His partner, indeed, was of the opinion that in such
a trade as this they were following there was no need at all of
real coffee or real guano, and explained his theory with
considerable eloquence. 'If I buy a ton of coffee and keep it
six weeks, why do I buy it and keep it, and why does the seller
sell it instead of keeping it? The seller sells it because he
thinks he can do best by parting with it now at a certain
price. I buy it because I think I can make money by keeping it.
It is just the same as though we were back to our opinions. He
backs the fall. I back the rise. You needn't have coffee and
you needn't have guano to do this. Indeed the possession of the
coffee or guano is only a very clumsy addition to the trouble of
your profession. I make it my study to watch the markets;--but
I needn't buy everything I see in order to make money by my
labour and intelligence.' Sexty Parker before his lunch always
thought that his partner was wrong, but after that ceremony he
almost daily became a convert to the great doctrine. Coffee and
guano still had to be bought because the world was dull and would
not learn the tricks of trade as taught by Ferdinand Lopez,--
also possibly because somebody might want such articles,--but
our enterprising hero looked for a time in which no such dull
burden should be imposed on him.
On this day, when the Duke's 500 pounds was turned into the
business, Sexty yielded in a large matter which his partner had
been pressing upon him for the last week. They bought a cargo
of Kauri gum, coming from New Zealand. Lopez had reasons for
thinking that Kauri gum must have a great rise. There was an
immense demand for amber, and Kauri gum might be used as a
substitute, and in six months' time would be double its present
value. This unfortunately was a real cargo. He could not find
an individual so enterprising as to venture to deal in a cargo of
Kauri gum after his fashion. But the next best thing was done.
The real cargo was bought, and his name and Sexty's name were on
the bills given for the goods. On that day he returned home in
high spirits for he did believe in his own intelligence and good
fortune.
CHAPTER 44
MR WHARTON THINKS OF A NEW WILL.
On that afternoon, immediately on the husband's return to the
house, his wife spoke to him as her father had desired. On that
evening Mr Wharton was dining at his club, and therefore there
was the whole evening before them; but the thing to be done was
disagreeable, and therefore she did it at once,--rushing into
the matter almost before he had seated himself in the arm-chair
which he had appropriated to his use in the drawing-room. 'Papa
was talking about our affairs after you left this morning, and he
thinks that it would be so much better if you would tell him
about them.'
'What made him talk of that today?' he said, turning at her
almost angrily and thinking at once of the Duke's cheque.
'I suppose it is natural that he should be anxious about us,
Ferdinand;--and the more natural as he has money to give if he
chooses to give it.'
'I have asked him for nothing lately;--though, by George, I
intend to ask him and that very roundly. Three thousand pounds
isn't much of a sum of money for your father to have given you.'
'And he paid the election bill;--didn't he?'
'He has been complaining of that behind my back,--has he? I
didn't ask him for it, he offered it. I wasn't such a fool as to
refuse, but he needn't bring that up as a grievance to you.'
'It wasn't brought up as a grievance. I was saying that your
standing had been a heavy expenditure--'
'Why did you say so? What made you talk about it at all? Why
should you be discussing my affairs behind my back?'
'To my own father! And that too when you are telling me every
day that I am to induce him to help you.'
'Not by complaining that I am poor. But how did it all begin?'
She had to think for a moment before she could recollect how it
did begin. 'There has been something,' he said, 'which you are
ashamed to tell me.'
'There is nothing I am ashamed to tell you. There never has been
and never will be anything.' And she stood up as she spoke, with
open eyes and extended nostrils. 'Whatever may come, however
wretched it may be, I shall not be ashamed of myself.'
'But of me!'
'Why do you say so? Why do you try to make unhappiness between
us?'
'You have been talking of--my poverty.'
'My father asked why you should go to Dovercourt,--and whether
it was because it would save expense.'
'You want to go somewhere?'
'Not at all. I am contented to stay in London. But I said that I
thought the expense had a good deal to do with it. Of course it
has.'
'Where do you want to be taken? I suppose Dovercourt is not
fashionable.'
'I want nothing.'
'If you are thinking of travelling abroad, I can't spare the
time. It isn't an affair of money, and you had no business to
say so. I thought of the place because it is quiet and because I
can get up and down easily. I am sorry that I ever came to live
in this house.'
'Why do you say that, Ferdinand?'
'Because you and your father make cabals behind my back. If
there is anything I hate it is that kind of thing.'
'You are very unjust,' she said to him sobbing. 'I have never
caballed. I have never done anything against you. Of course
papa ought to know.'
'Why ought he to know? Why is your father to have the right of
inquiry into all my affairs?'
'Because you want his assistance. It is only natural. You
always tell me to get him to assist you. He spoke to me kindly,
saying that he would like to know how things are.'
'Then he won't know. As for wanting his assistance, of course I
want the fortune which he ought to give to you. He is a man of
the world enough to know that as I am in business capital must be
useful to me. I should have thought that you would understand as
much as that yourself.'
'I do understand it, I suppose.'
'Then why don't you act as my friend rather than his? Why don't
you take my part? It seems to me that you are much more his
daughter than my wife.'
'That is most unfair.'
'If you had any pluck you would make him understand that for your
sake he ought to say what he means to do, so that I might have
the advantage of the fortune which I suppose he means to give you
some day. If you had the slightest anxiety to help me you could
influence him. Instead of that you talk to him about my poverty.
I don't want him to think that I am a pauper. That's not the way
to get round a man like your father, who is rich himself and who
thinks it a disgrace in other men not to be rich too.'
'I can't tell him in the same breath that you are rich and that
you want money.'
'Money is the means by which men make money. If he was confident
of my business he'd sell out his cash quick enough! It is
because he has been taught to think that I am in a small way.
He'll find his mistake some day.'
'You won't speak to him then?'
'I don't say that at all. If I find that it will answer my own
purpose I shall speak to him. But it would be very much easier
to me if I could get you to be cordial in helping me.'
Emily by this time quite knew what such cordiality meant. He had
been so free in his words to her that there could be no mistake.
He had instructed her to 'get round' her father. And now again
he spoke of her influence over her father. Although her
illusions were all melting away,--oh, so quickly vanishing,--
still she knew that it was her duty to be true to her husband,
and to be his wife rather than her father's daughter. But what
could she say on his behalf, knowing nothing of his affairs? She
had no idea what was his business, what was his income, what
amount of money she ought to spend as his wife. As far as she
could see,--and her common sense in seeing such things was good,
--he had no regular income, and was justified in no expenditure.
On her own account she would ask for no information. She was too
proud to request that from him which should be given without any
request. But in her own defence she must tell him that she could
use no influence with her father as she knew none of the
circumstances by which her father would be guided. 'I cannot
tell you in the manner you mean,' she said, 'because I know
nothing myself.'
'You know that you can trust me to do the best with your money if
I could get hold of it, I suppose?' She certainly did not know
this, and held her tongue. 'You could assure him of that?'
'I could only tell him to judge for himself.'
'What you mean is that you'd see me d-d before you would open
your mouth for me to the old man!'
He had never sworn at her before, and now she burst out into a
flood of tears. It was to her a terrible outrage. I do not know
that a woman is very much the worse because her husband may
forget himself on an occasion to 'rap out an oath at her', as he
would call it when making the best of his own sin. Such an
offence is compatible with uniform kindness and most affectionate
consideration. I have known ladies who would think little or
nothing about it,--who would go no farther than the mildest
protest,--'Do remember where you are!' or 'My dear John!'--if
no stranger were present. But then a wife should be initiated
into it by degrees and there are different tones of bad language,
of which by far the most general is the good-humoured tone. We
all of us know men who never damn their servants or inferiors, or
strangers, or women,--who in fact keep it all for their bosom
friends, and if a little does sometimes flow over in the freedom
of domestic life, the wife is apt to remember that she is the
bosomer of her husband's friends, and so to pardon the
transgression. But here the word had been uttered with all its
foulest violence, with virulence and vulgarity. It seemed to the
victim to be the sign of a terrible crisis in her early married
life,--as though the man who had spoken to her could never again
love her, never again be kind to her, never again be sweetly
gentle and like a love. And as he spoke it he looked at her as
though he would like to tear her limbs asunder. She was
frightened as well as horrified and astounded. She had not a
word to say to him. She did not know in what language to make
her complaint of such treatment. She burst into tears, and
throwing herself on the sofa, hid her face in her hands. 'You
provoke me to be violent,' he said. But still she could not
speak to him. 'I come away from the city, tired with work and
troubled with a thousand things, and you have not had a kind word
to say to me.' Then there was a pause, during which she still
sobbed. 'If your father has anything to say to me, let him say
it. I shall not run away. But as to going to him of my own
accord with a story as long as my arm about my affairs, I don't
mean to do it.' Then he paused a moment again. 'Come, old girl,
cheer up! Don't pretend to be broken-hearted because I used a
hard word. There are worse things than that to be borne in the
world.'
'I--I--I was so startled, Ferdinand.'
'A man can't always remember that he isn't with another man.
Don't think anything more about it, but do bear this in mind,--
that, situated as we are, your influence with your father may be
the making or marring of me.' And so he left the room.
She had sat for the next ten minutes thinking of it all. The
words which he had spoken were so horrible that she could not get
them out of her mind,--could not bring herself to look upon them
as a trifle. The darkness of his countenance still dwelt with
her,--and that absence of all tenderness, that coarse, un-
marital and yet marital roughness, which should not at any rate
have come to him so soon. The whole man too was so different
from what she had thought him to be. Before their marriage no
word as to money had ever reached her ears from his lips. He had
talked to her of books,--and especially of poetry. Shakespeare
and Moliere, Dante and Goethe, had been or had seemed to be, dear
to him. And he had been full of fine ideas about women, and
about men in their intercourse with women. For his sake she had
separated herself from all her old friends. For his sake she had
hurried into a marriage altogether distasteful to her father.
For his sake she had closed her heart against the other lover.
Trusting altogether in him she had ventured to think that she had
known what was good for her better than all those who had been
her counsellors, and had given herself to him utterly. Now she
was awake, her dream was over, and the natural language of the man
was still ringing in her ears.
They met together at dinner and passed the evening without a
further allusion to the scene which had been acted. He sat with
a magazine in his hand, every now and then making some remark
intended to be pleasant but which grated on her ears as being
fictitious. She would answer him,--because it was her duty to
do so, and because she would not condescend to sulk; but she
could not bring herself even to say to herself that all should be
with her as though that horrid word had not been spoken. She sat
over her work till ten, answering him when he spoke in a voice
which was also fictitious, and then took herself off to her bed
that she might weep alone. It would, she knew, be late before he
would come to her.
On the next morning there came a message to him as he was
dressing. Mr Wharton wished to speak to him. Would he come down
before breakfast, or would he call on Mr Wharton in Stone
Buildings? He sent down word that he would do the latter at an
hour to be fixed, and then did not show himself in the breakfast-
room till Mr Wharton was gone. 'I've got to go to your father
to-day,' he said to his wife, 'and I thought it best not to begin
till we come to the regular business. I hope he does not mean to
be unreasonable.' To this she made no answer. 'Of course you
think the want of reason will be all on my side.'
'I don't know why you should say so.'
'Because I can read your mind. You do think so. You've been in
the same boat with your father all your life, and you can't get
out of that boat and get into mine. I was wrong to come and live
here. Of course it was not the way to withdraw you from his
influence.' She had nothing to say that would not anger him, and
was therefore silent. 'Well; I must do the best I can by myself,
I suppose. Good-bye,' and so he was off.
'I want to know,' said Mr Wharton, on whom was thrown by
premeditation on the part of Lopez the task of beginning the
conversation,--'I want to know what is the nature of your
operation. I have never been quite able to understand it.'
'I do not know that I quite understand it myself,' said Lopez
laughing.
'No man alive,' continued the old barrister almost solemnly, 'has
a greater objection to thrust himself into another man's affairs
than I have. And I didn't ask the question before your marriage,
--as perhaps I ought to have done,--I should not do so now, were
it not that the disposition of some part of my earnings of my
life must depend on the condition of your affairs.' Lopez
immediately perceived that it behoved him to be very much on the
alert. It might be that if he showed himself to be very poor,
his father-in-law would see the necessity of assisting him at
once, or it might be, that unless he could show himself to be in
prosperous circumstances, his father-in-law would not assist him
at all. 'To tell you the plain truth, I am minded to make a new
will. I had of course made arrangements as to my property before
Emily's marriage. Those arrangements I think I shall now alter.
I am greatly distressed with Everett, and from what I see and
from a few words that have dropped from Emily, I am not, to tell
you the truth, quite happy as to your position. If I understand
rightly you are a general merchant, buying and selling goods in
the market?'
'That's about it, sir.'
'What capital have you in the business?'
'What capital?'
'Yes;--how much did you put into it at starting?'
Lopez paused a moment. He had got his wife. The marriage could
not be undone. Mr Wharton had money enough for them all, and
certainly would not discard his daughter. Mr Wharton could place
him on a really equal footing, and might not improbably do so if
he could be made to feel some confidence in his son-in-law. At
this moment there was much doubt with the son-in-law whether he
had better not tell the simple truth. 'It has gone in by degrees,'
he said. 'Altogether I have about 8,000 pounds in it.' In truth
he had never been possessed of a shilling.
'Does that include the 3,000 pounds you had from me?'
'Yes; it does.'
'Then you have married my girl and started into the world with a
business based on 5,000 pounds, and which had so far miscarried
that within a month of two after your marriage you were driven to
apply to me for funds!'
'I wanted money for a certain purpose.'
'Have you any partner, Mr Lopez?' This address was felt to be
very ominous.
'Yes. I have a partner who is possessed of capital. His name is
Parker.'
'Then his capital is your capital.'
'Well;--I can't explain it, but it is not so.'
'What is the name of your firm?'
'We haven't a registered name.'
'Have you a place of business?'
'Parker has a place of business in Little Tankard Yard.'
Mr Wharton turned to a directory and found out Parker's name.
'Mr Parker is a stockbroker. Are you also a stockbroker?'
'No,--I am not.'
'Then, sir, it seems to me that you are a commercial adventurer.'
'I am not at all ashamed of the name, Mr Wharton. According to
your manner of reckoning half the business of the City of London
is done by commercial adventurers. I watch the markets and buy
goods,--and sell them at a profit. Mr Parker is a moneyed man,
who happens also to be a stockbroker. We can very easily call
ourselves merchants, and put up the names of Lopez and Parker
over the door.'
'Do you sign bills together?'
'Yes.'
'As Lopez and Parker?'
'No. I sign them and he signs them. I trade also by myself, and
so, I believe, does he.'
'One other question, Mr Lopez. On what income have you paid
income-tax for the last three years?'
'On 2,000 pounds a year,' said Lopez. This was a direct lie.
'Can you make out any schedule showing your exact assets and
liabilities at the present time?'
'Certainly I can.'
'Then do so, and send it to me before I go into Hertfordshire.
My will as it stands at present would not be to your advantage.
But I cannot change it till I know more of your circumstances
than I do now.' And so the interview was over.
CHAPTER 45
MRS SEXTY PARKER.
Though Mr Wharton and Lopez met every day for the next week,
nothing more was said about the schedule. The old man was
thinking about it every day, and so was Lopez. But Mr Wharton
had made his demand, and, as he thought, nothing more was to be
said on the subject. He could not continue the subject as he
would have done with his son. But as day after day passed by he
became more and more convinced that his son-in-law's affairs were
not in a state which could bear to see the light. He had
declared his purpose of altering his will in the man's favour, if
the man would satisfy him. And yet nothing was done and nothing
was said.
Lopez had come among them and robbed him of his daughter. Since
the man had become intimate in his house he had not known an
hour's happiness. The man had destroyed all the plans of his
life, broken through his castle, and violated his very hearth.
No doubt he himself had vacillated. He was aware of that. No
present mood was severe enough in judging himself. In his
desolation he had tried to take the man to his heart,--had been
kind to him, and had even opened his house to him. He had told
himself that as the man was the husband of his daughter he had
better make the best of it. He had endeavoured to make the best
of it, but between him and the man there were such differences
that they were poles asunder. And now it became clear to him
that the man was, as he had declared to the man's face, no better
than an adventurer!
By his will as it at present stood he had left two-thirds of his
property to Everett, and one-third to his daughter, with
arrangements for settling her share on her children, should she
be married and have children at the time of his death. This will
had been made many years ago, and he had long since determined to
alter it, in order that he might divide his property equally
between his children;--but he had postponed the matter,
intending to give a large portion of Emily's share to her
directly on her marriage with Arthur Fletcher. She had not
married Arthur Fletcher;--but it was still necessary that a new
will should be made.
When he left town for Hertfordshire he had not yet made up his
mind how this should be done. He had at one time thought that he
would give some considerable sum to Lopez at once, knowing that
to a man in business such assistance would be useful. And he had
not altogether abandoned that idea, even when he had asked for
the schedule. He did not relish the thought of giving his hard-
earned money to Lopez, but still the man's wife was his daughter,
and he must do the best that he could for her. Her taste in
marrying the man was inexplicable to him. But that was done;--
and now how might he best arrange his affairs so as to serve her
interests?
About the middle of August he went to Hertfordshire and she to
the seaside in Essex,--to the little place which Lopez had
selected. Before the end of the month the father-in-law wrote a
line to his son-in-law.
DEAR LOPEZ,
(not without premeditation had he departed from the sternness of
that 'Mr Lopez', which in his anger he had used at the chambers.)
When we were discussing your affairs I asked you for a
schedule of your assets and liabilities. I can make no
new arrangement of my property until I receive this.
Should I die leaving my present will as the instrument
under which my property would be conveyed to my heirs,
Emily's share would go into the hands of trustees for the
use of herself and her possible children. I tell you
this that you may understand that it is for your own
interest to comply with my requisition.
Yours,
A. WHARTON
Of course questions were asked him as to how the newly married
couple were getting on. At Wharton these questions were mild and
easily put off. Sir Alured was contented with a slight shake of
his head, and Lady Wharton only remarked for the fifth or sixth
time that it 'was a pity'. But when they all went to Longbarns,
the difficulty became greater. Arthur was not there, and old Mrs
Fletcher was in full strength. 'So the Lopezes have come to live
with you in Manchester Square?' Mr Wharton acknowledged that it
was so with an affirmative grunt. 'I hope he's a pleasant
inmate.' There was a scorn in the old woman's voice as she said
this, which ought to have provoked any man.
'More so than most men would be,' said Mr Wharton.
'Oh, indeed!'
'He is courteous and forbearing, and does not think that
everything around him should be suited to his own peculiar
fancies.'
'I am glad you are contented with the marriage, Mr Wharton.'
'Who said that I am contented with it? No one ought to
understand or to share my discontent so cordially as yourself,
Mrs Fletcher;--and no one ought to be more chary of speaking of
it. You and I hoped for other things, and old people do not like
to be disappointed. But I needn't paint the devil blacker than
he is.'
'I'm afraid that, as usual, he is rather black.'
'Mother,' said John Fletcher, 'the thing has been done and you
might as well let it be. We are all sorry that Emily has not
come nearer to us, but she has a right to choose for herself, and
I for one wish,--as does my brother also,--that she may be
happy in the lot she has chosen.'
'His conduct to Arthur at Silverbridge was so nice!' said the
pertinacious old woman.
'Never mind his conduct, mother. What is it to us?'
'That's all very well, John, but according to that nobody is to
talk about anybody.'
'I would much prefer, at any rate,' said Mr Wharton, 'that you
would not talk about Mr Lopez in my hearing.'
'I don't like Lopez, you know,' Mr Wharton said to John Fletcher
afterwards. 'How should it be possible that I should like such a
man? But there can be no good got by complaints. It is not what
your mother suffers, or what evil I can suffer,--or, worse
again, what Arthur may suffer, that makes the sadness of all
this. What will be her life? That is the question. And it is
too near me, too important to me, for the endurance either of
scorn or pity. I was glad you asked your mother to be silent.'
'I can understand it,' said John. 'I do not think that she will
trouble you again.'
In the meantime Lopez received Mr Wharton's letter at Dovercourt,
and had to consider what answer he should give to it. No answer
could be satisfactory,--unless he could impose a false answer on
his father-in-law so as to make it credible. The more he thought
of it, the more he believed this would be impossible. The
cautious old lawyer would not accept unverified statements. A
certain sum of money,--by no means illiberal at present,--he
had already extracted from the old man. What he wanted was a
further and much larger grant. Though Mr Wharton was old he did
not want to have to wait for the death even of an old man. The
next two or three years,--probably the very next year,--might
be the turning-point of his life. He had married the girl, and
ought to have the girl's fortune,--down on the nail! As he
thought of this he cursed his ill luck. The husbands of other
girls had their fortunes conveyed to them immediately on their
marriage. What would not 20,000 pounds do for him, if he could
get it into his hand? And so he taught himself to regard the old
man as a robber and himself as a victim. Who among us is there
who does not teach himself the same lesson? And then too how
cruelly, how damnably he had been used by the Duchess of Omnium!
And how Sexty Parker, whose fortune he was making for him, whose
fortune he at any rate intended to make, was troubling him in
various ways. 'We're in a boat together,' Sexty had said.
'You've had the use of my money, and by heavens you have it
still. I don't see why you should be so stiff. Do you bring
your missus to Dovercourt, and I'll take mine, and let 'em know
each other.' There was a little argument on the subject, but
Sexty Parker had the best of it, and in this way the trip to
Dovercourt was arranged.
Lopez was in a very good humour when he took his wife down, and
he walked her round the terraces and esplanades of that not
sufficiently well-known marine paradise, now bidding her admire
the sea and now laughing at the finery of the people, till she
became gradually filled with the idea that he was making himself
pleasant, she also ought to do the same. Of course she was not
happy. The gilding had so completely and so rapidly been washed
off her idol that she could not be very happy. But she also
could be good-humoured. 'And now,' said he, smiling, 'I have got
something for you to do for me,--something that you will find
very disagreeable.'
'What is it? It won't be very bad, I'm sure.'
'It will be very bad, I'm afraid. My excellent but horribly
vulgar partner, Sexty Parker, when he found that I was coming
here, insisted on bringing his wife and children also. I want
you to know them.'
'Is that all? She must be very bad indeed if I can't put up with
that.'
'In one sense she isn't bad at all. I believe her to be an
excellent woman, intent on spoiling her children and giving her
husband a good dinner every day. But I think you will find that
she is,--well,--not quite what you would call a lady.'
'I shan't mind that in the least. I'll help her spoil the
children.'
'You can get a lesson there, you know,' he said, looking into her
face. The little joke was one which a young wife might take with
pleasure from her husband, but her life had already been too much
embittered for any such delight. Yes; the time was coming when
that trouble also would be added to her. She dreaded she knew
not what, and had often told herself that it would be better that
she should be childless.
'Do you like him?' she said.
'Like him. No;--I can't say I like him. He is useful, and in
one sense honest.'
'Is he not honest in all senses?'
'That's a large order. To tell you the truth, I don't know any
man who is.'
'Everett is honest.'
'He loses money at play which he can't pay without assistance
from his father. If his father had refused, where would then
have been his honesty? Sexty is as honest as others, I dare say,
but I shouldn't like to trust him much farther than I could see
him. I shan't go up to town to-morrow, and we'll both look in on
them after luncheon.'
In the afternoon the call was made. The Parkers, having
children, had dined early, and he was sitting out on a little
porch smoking his pipe, drinking whisky and water, and looking at
the sea. His eldest girl was standing between his legs, and his
wife, with the other three children round her, was sitting on the
door-step. 'I've brought my wife to see you,' said Lopez,
holding his hand to Mrs Parker, as she rose from the ground.
'I told her that you'd be coming,' said Sexty, 'and she wanted me
to put off my pipe and little drop of drink; but I said that if
Mrs Lopez was the lady I took her to be she wouldn't begrudge a
hard-working fellow his pipe and glass on a holiday.'
There was a soundness of sense in this which mollified any
feeling of disgust which Emily might have felt at the man's
vulgarity. 'I think you are quite right, Mr Parker. I should be
very sorry if,--if--'
'If I was to put my pipe out. Well, I won't. You'll take a
glass of sherry, Lopez? Though I'm drinking spirits myself. I
brought down a hamper of sherry wine. Oh, nonsense;--you must
take something. That's right, Jane. Let us have the stuff and
the glasses, and then they can do as they like.' Lopez lit a
cigar, and allowed his host to pour out for him a glass of
'sherry wine', while Mrs Lopez went into the house with Mrs
Parker and the children.
Mrs Parker opened herself out to her new friend immediately. She
hoped that they two might see 'a deal of each other,--that is,
if you don't think it's too pushing'. Sextus, she said, was so
much away, coming down to Dovercourt only every other day! And
then, within the half hour which was consumed by Lopez with his
cigar, the poor woman got upon the general troubles of her life.
Did Mrs Lopez think that 'all this speckelation was just the
right thing?'
'I don't think I know anything about it, Mrs Parker.'
'But you ought;--oughtn't you, now? Don't you think that a wife
ought to know what it is that her husband is after;--specially
if there's children? A good bit of money was mine, Mrs Lopez,
and though I don't begrudge it, not one bit, if any good is to
come out of it to him or them, a woman doesn't like what her
father has given her should be made ducks and drakes of.'
'But are they making ducks and drakes?'
'When he don't tell me I'm always afeard. And I'll tell you what
I know just as well as two and two. When he comes home a little
flustered, and then takes more than his regular allowance, he's
been at something as don't quite satisfy him. He's never that
way when he's done a good day's work at his regular business. He
takes to the children then, and has one glass after his dinner,
and tells me all about it,--down to the shillings and pence.
But it's very seldom he's that way now.'
'You may think it very odd, Mrs Parker, but I don't in the least
know what my husband is--in business.'
'And you never ask?'
'I haven't been very long married, you know,--only about two
months.'
'I'd had my fust by that time.'
'Only nine months, I think, indeed.'
'Well; I wasn't very long after that. But I took care to know
what it was he was a-doing of in the city long before that time.
And I did use to know everything, till--' She was going to say,
till Lopez had come upon the scene. But she did not wish, at any
rate as yet, to be harsh to her new friend.
'I hope it is all right,' said Emily.
'Sometimes he's as though the Bank of England was all his own.
And there's been more money come into the house;--that I must
say. And there isn't an open-handeder one than Sexty anywhere.
He'd like to see me in a silk gown every day of my life;--and as
for the children, there's nothing smart enough for them. Only
I'd sooner have a little and safe, than anything ever so fine,
and never be sure whether it wasn't going to come to an end.'
'There I agree with you, quite.'
'I don't suppose men feels it as we do; but, oh, Mrs Lopez, give
me a little safe, so that I may know that I shan't see my
children want. When I thinks what it would be to have them
darlings' little bellies empty, and nothing in the cupboard, I
get that low that I'm nigh fit for Bedlam.'
In the meantime the two men outside the porch were discussing
their affairs in somewhat the same spirit. At last Lopez showed
the friend Wharton's letter, and told him of the expected
schedule. 'Schedule be d-d, you know,' said Lopez. 'How am I to
put down a rise of 12s.6d a ton on Kauri gum in a schedule? But
when you come to 2,000 tons it's 1,250 pounds.'
'He's very old, isn't he?'
'But as strong as a horse.'
'He's got the money?'
'Yes;--he has got it safe enough. There's no doubt about the
money.'
'What he talks about is only a will. Now you want the money at
once.'
'Of course I do;--and he talks to me as if I were some old fogy
with an estate of my own. I must concoct a letter and explain my
views; and the more I can make him understand how things really
are the better. I don't suppose he wants to see his daughter
come to grief.'
'Then the sooner you write it the better,' said Mr Parker.
CHAPTER 46
'HE WANTS TO GET RICH TOO QUICK.'
As they strolled home Lopez told his wife that he had accepted an
invitation to dine the next day at the Parker's cottage. In
doing this his manner was not quite so gentle as when he had
asked her to call on them. He had been a little ruffled by what
had been said, and now exhibited his temper. 'I don't suppose it
will be very nice,' he said, 'but we may have to put up with
worse things than that.'
'I have made no objection.'
'But you don't seem to take it very cordially.'
'I had thought I had got on very well with Mrs Parker. If you
can eat your dinner with them, I'm sure I can. You do not seem
to like him altogether, and I wish you had got a partner more to
your taste.'
'Taste indeed! When you come to this kind of thing it isn't a
matter of taste. The fact is, that I am in the fellow's hands to
an extent I don't like to think of, and don't see my way out of
it unless your father will do as he ought to do. You altogether
refuse to help me with your father, and you must, therefore, put
up with Sexty Parker and his wife. It is quite on the cards that
worse things may come even than Sexty Parker.' To this she made
no immediate answer, but walked on, increasing her pace, not only
unhappy, but also very angry. It was becoming a matter of doubt
to her whether she could continue to bear the repeated attacks
about her father's money. 'I can see how it is,' he continued.
'You think that a husband should bear all the troubles of life,
and that a wife should never be made to hear of them.'
'Ferdinand,' she said, 'I declare I did not think that any man
could be so unfair to a woman as you are to me.'
'Of course! Because I haven't got thousands a year to spend on
you I am unfair.'
'I am content to live in any way that you may direct. If you are
poor, I am satisfied to be poor. If you are even ruined, I am
content to be ruined.'
'Who is talking about ruin?'
'If you are in want of everything, I also will be in want and
will never complain. Whatever our joint lot may bring to us I
will endure and endeavour to endure with cheerfulness. But I
will not ask my father for money, either for you or for myself.
He knows what he ought to do. I trust him implicitly.'
'And me not at all.'
'He is, I know, in communication with you about what should be
done. I can only say,--tell him everything.'
'My dear, that is a matter in which it may be possible that I
understand my own interest best.'
'Very likely. I certainly understand nothing, for I do not even
know the nature of your business. How can I tell him that he
ought to give you money?'
'You might have asked him for your own.'
'I have got nothing. Did I ever tell you that I had?'
'You ought to have known.'
'Do you mean that when you asked me to marry you I should have
refused you because I did not know what money my papa would give
me? Why did you not ask papa?'
'Had I known him then as well as I do now you may be quite sure
that I should have done so.'
'Ferdinand, it will be better that we should not speak about my
father. I will in all things strive to do as you would have me,
but I cannot hear him abused. If you have anything to say, go to
Everett.'
'Yes;--when he is such a gambler that your father won't even
speak to him. Your father will be found dead in bed some day,
and all his money will have been left to some cursed hospital.'
They were at their own door when this was said, and she, without
further answer, went up to her bedroom.
All these bitter things had been said, not because Lopez had
thought that he could further his own views by saying them;--he
knew indeed that he was injuring himself by every display of ill-
temper;--but she was in his power, and Sexty Parker was
rebelling. He thought a good deal that day on the delight he
would have in 'kicking that ill-conditioned cur', if only he
could afford to kick him. But his wife was his own, and she
must be taught to endure his will, and must be made to know that
though she was not to be kicked, yet she was to be tormented and
ill-used. And it might be possible that he should cow her
spirits as to bring her to act as she should direct. Still, as
he walked alone along the sea-shore, he knew that it would be
better for him to control his temper.
On that evening he did write to Mr Wharton,--as follows,--and
he dated the letter from Little Tankard Yard, so that Mr Wharton
might suppose that that was his own place of business, and that
he was there, at his work:
MY DEAR SIR,
You have asked for a schedule of my affairs, and I have
found it quite impossible to give it. As it was with the
merchants whom Shakespeare and the other dramatists
described,--so it is with me. My caravels are out at
sea, and will not always come home in time. My property
at this moment consists of certain shares of cargoes of
jute, Kauri gum, guano, and sulphur, worth altogether at
the present moment something over 26,000 pounds, of which
Mr Parker possesses a half;--but then of this property
only a portion is paid for,--perhaps something more than
a half. For the other half our bills are in the market.
But in February next these articles will probably be sold
for considerably more than 30,000 pounds. If I had 5,000
pounds placed to my credit now, I should be worth about
15,000 pounds by the end of next February. I am engaged
in sundry other smaller ventures, all returning profits;
--but in such a condition of things it is impossible that
I should make a schedule.
I am undoubtedly in the condition of a man trading beyond
his capital. I have been tempted by fair offers, and
what I think I may call something beyond an average
understanding of such matters, to go into ventures beyond
my means. I have stretched my arm out too far. In such a
position it is not perhaps unnatural that I should ask a
wealthy father-in-law to assist me. It is certainly not
unnatural that I should wish him to do so.
I do not think I am a mercenary man. When I married your
daughter I raised no question of her fortune. Being
embarked in trade I no doubt thought that her means,--
whatever they might be,--would be joined with my own. I
know that a sum of 20,000 pounds, with my expeditious use
of the money, would give us a noble income. But I would
not condescend to ask a question which might lead to a
supposition that I was marrying her for her money and not
because I loved her.
You now know, I think, all that I can tell you. If there
be any other questions I would willingly answer them. It
is certainly the case that Emily's fortune, whatever you
may choose to give her, would be of infinitely greater
use to me now,--and consequently to her,--than at a
future date which I sincerely pray may be very long
deferred.
Believe me to be, your affectionate son-in-law
FERDINAND LOPEZ
A. Wharton, Esq.
This letter he himself took up to town on the following day, and
there posted, addressing it to Wharton Hall. He did not expect
very great results from it. As he read it over, he was painfully
aware that all this trash about caravels and cargoes of sulphur
would not go very far with Mr Wharton. But it might go farther
than nothing. He was bound not to neglect Mr Wharton's letter to
him. When a man is in difficulty about money, even a lie,--even
a lie that is sure to be found out to be a lie,--will serve his
immediate turn better than silence. There is nothing that the
courts hate so much as contempt;--not even perjury. And Lopez
felt that Mr Wharton was the judge before whom he was bound to
plead.
He returned to Dovercourt on that day, and he and his wife dined
with the Parkers. No woman of her age had known better what were
the manners of ladies and gentlemen than Emily Wharton. She had
thoroughly understood that when in Hertfordshire she was
surrounded by people of that class, and that when she was with
her aunt, Mrs Roby, she was not quite so happily placed. No
doubt she had been terribly deceived by her husband,--but the
deceit had come from the fact that his manners gave no indication
of his character. When she found herself in Mrs Parker's little
sitting-room, with Mr Parker making florid speeches to her, she
knew that she had fallen among people for whose society she had
not been intended. But this was a part, and only a very trifling
part, of the punishment which she felt that she deserved. If
that, and things like that, were all, she would bear them without
a murmur.
'Now I call Dovercourt a dooced nice little place,' said Mrs
Parker, as he helped her to the 'bit fish', which he told her he
had brought down with him from London.
'It is very healthy, I should think.
'Just the thing for the children, ma'am. You've none of your
own, Mrs Lopez, but there's a good time coming. You were up to-
day, weren't you, Lopez. Any news?'
'Things seemed to be very quiet in the city.'
'Too quiet, I'm afraid. I hate having 'em quiet. You must come
and see me in Little Tankard Yard some of these days, Mrs Lopez.
We can give you a glass of champagne and the wing of a chicken;--
can't we, Lopez?'
'I don't know. It's more than you ever gave me,' said Lopez,
trying to look good-humoured.
'But you ain't a lady.'
'Or me,' said Mrs Parker.
'You're only a wife. If Mrs Lopez will make a day of it we'll
treat her well in the city;--won't we, Ferdinand?' A black
cloud come across 'Ferdinand's' face, but he said nothing. Emily
of a sudden drew herself up unconsciously,--and then at once
relaxed her features and smiled. If her husband chose that it
should be so, she would make no objection.
'Upon my honour, Sexty, you are very familiar,' said Mrs Parker.
'It's a way we have in the city,' said Sexty. Sexty knew what he
was about. His partner called him Sexty, and why shouldn't he
call his partner Ferdinand?
'He'll call you Emily before long,' said Lopez.
'When you call my wife Jane, I shall,--and I've no objection in
life. I don't see why people ain't to call each other by their
Christian names. Take a glass of champagne, Mrs Lopez. I
brought down half-a-dozen to-day so that we might be jolly. Care
killed a cat. Whatever we call each other, I'm very glad to see
you here, Mrs Lopez, and I hope it's the first of a great many.
Here's to your health.'
It was all his ordering, and if he bade her dine with a crossing-
sweeper she would do it. But she could not but remember that not
long since he had told her that his partner was not a person with
whom she could fitly associated; and she did not fail to perceive
that he must be going down in the world to admit such
associations for her after he had so spoken. And as she sipped
the mixture which Sexty called champagne, she thought of
Hertfordshire and the banks of the Wye, and--alas, alas,--she
thought of Arthur Fletcher. Nevertheless, come what might, she
would do her duty, even though it might call upon her to sit at
dinner with Mr Parker three days in the week. Lopez was her
husband, and would be the father of her child, and she would make
herself one with him. It mattered not what people might call
him,--or even her. She had acted on her own judgement in
marrying him, and had been a fool; and now she would bear the
punishment without complaint.
When dinner was over Mrs Parker helped the servant to remove the
dinner things from the single sitting-room, and the two men went
out to smoke their cigars in the covered porch. Mrs Parker
herself took out the whisky and hot water, and sugar and lemons,
and then returned to have a little matronly discourse with her
guest. 'Does Mr Lopez ever take a drop too much?'
'Never,' said Mrs Lopez.
'Perhaps it don't affect him as it do Sexty. He ain't a drinker;
--certainly not. And he's one that works hard every day of his
life. But he's getting fond of it these last twelve months, and
though he don't take very much it hurries him and flurries him.
If I speaks at night he gets cross;--and in the morning when he
gets up, which he always do regular, though it's ever so bad with
him, then I haven't the heart to scold him. It's very hard
sometimes for a wife to know what to do, Mrs Lopez.'
'Yes, indeed.' Emily could not but think how soon she herself
had learned that lesson.
'Of course I'd anything for Sexty,--the father of my bairns, and
has always been a good husband to me. You don't know him, of
course, but I do. A right good man at bottom; but so weak!'
'If he,--if he,--injures his health, shouldn't you talk to him
about it?'
'It isn't the drink as is the evil, Mrs Lopez, but that which
makes him drink. He's not one as goes a mucker merely for the
pleasure. When things are going right he'll sit out in our arbour
at home, and smoke pipe after pipe, playing with the children,
and one glass of gin and water will see him to bed. Tobacco,
dry, do agree with him, I think. But when he comes to three or
four goes of hot toddy, I know it's not as it should be.'
'You should restrain him, Mrs Parker.'
'Of course I should;--but how? Am I to walk off with the bottle
and disgrace him before the servant girl? Or am I to let the
children know as their father takes too much? If I was as much
as to make one fight of it, it'd be all over Ponder's End that
he's a drunkard;--which he ain't. Restrain him;--oh yes! If I
could restrain that gambling instead of regular business. That's
what I would like to restrain.'
'Does he gamble?'
'What is it but gambling that he and Mr Lopez is a-doing
together? Or course, ma'am, I don't know you, and you are
different from me. I ain't foolish enough not to know all that.
My father stood in Smithfield and sold hay, and your father is a
gentleman as has been high up in the Courts all his life. But
it's your husband is a-doing this.'
'Oh, Mrs Parker!'
'He is then. I don't know about commerce, Mrs Lopez, because I'm
only a woman; but it can't be fair. They goes and buys things
that they haven't got the money to pay for, and then waits to see
if they'll turn up trumps. Isn't that gambling?'
'I cannot say. I do not know.' She felt now that her husband
had been accused, and that part of that accusation had been
levelled at herself. There was something in her manner of saying
these few words which the poor complaining woman perceived,
feeling immediately that she had been inhospitable and perhaps
unjust. She put out her hand softly, touching the other woman's
arm, and looking up into her guest's face. 'If this is so, it's
terrible,' said Emily.
'Perhaps I shouldn't speak so free.'
'Oh, yes;--for your children, and yourself, and your husband.'
'It's them,--and him. Of course it's not your doing, and Mr
Lopez, I'm sure, is a very fine gentleman. And if he gets wrong
one way, he'll get himself right in another.' Upon hearing this
Emily shook her head. 'Your papa is a rich man, and won't see
you and yours come to want. There's nothing more to come to me
or Sexty let it be ever so.'
'Why does he do it?'
'Why does who do it?'
'Your husband. Why don't you speak to him as you do to me, and
tell him to mind only his proper business?'
'Now you are angry with me.'
'Angry! No;--indeed I am not angry. Every word that you say is
good and true, and just what you ought to say. I am not angry;
but I am terrified. I know nothing of my husband's business. I
cannot tell you that you should trust to it. He is very clever,
but-'
'But what, ma'am?'
'Perhaps I should say that he is ambitious.'
'You mean he wants to get rich too quick, ma'am.'
'I'm afraid so.'
'Then it's just the same with Sexty. He's ambitious too. But
what's the good of being ambitious, Mrs Lopez, if you never know
whether you're on your head or your heels? And what's the good
of being ambitious if you're to get into the workhouse? I know
what that means. There's one or two of them sort of men gets
into Parliament, and has houses as big as the Queen's palace,
while hundreds of them has their wives and children in the
gutter. Who ever hears of them? Nobody. It don't become any
man to be ambitious who has got a wife and family. If he's a
bachelor, who, of course, he can go to the Colonies. There's
Mary Jane and the two little ones right down on the sea, with
their feet in the water. She we put on our hats, Mrs Lopez, and
go and look after them?' To this proposition Emily assented, and
the two ladies went out after the children.
'Mix yourself another glass,' said Sexty to his partner.
'I'd rather not. Don't ask me again. You know I never drink,
and I don't like being pressed.'
'By George,--you're particular.'
'What's the use of teasing a fellow to do a thing he doesn't
like?'
'You won't mind me having another?'
'Fifty if you please, so that I'm not forced to join you.'
'Forced! It's liberty 'all here, and you can do as you please.
Only when a fellow will take a drop with me, he's better
company.'
'Then I'm d-d bad company, and you'd better get somebody else to
be jolly with. To tell you the truth, Sexty, I suit you better
at business than at this sort of thing. I'm like Shylock, you
know.'
'I don't know about Shylock, but I'm blessed if I think you suit
me very well at anything. I'm putting up with a deal of ill-
usage, and when I try to be happy with you, you won't drink, and
you tell me about Shylock. He was a Jew, wasn't he?'
'That is the general idea.'
'Then you ain't much very like him, for they're the sort of
people that always has money about them.'
'How do you suppose he made his money to begin with? What an ass
you are!'
'That's true, I am. Ever since I began putting my name on the
same bit of paper with yours, I've been an ass.'
'You'll have to be one a bit longer yet;--unless you mean to
throw up everything. At this present moment you are six or seven
thousand pounds richer than you were before you first met me.'
'I wish I could see the money.'
'That's like you. What's the use of money you can see? How are
you to make money out of money by looking at it? I like to know
that my money is fructifying.'
'I like to know that it's all there,--and I did know it before I
ever saw you. I'm blessed if I know it now. Go down and join
the ladies, will you? You ain't much of a companion up here.'
Shortly after that Lopez told Mrs Parker that he had already bade
adieu to her husband, and then he took his wife to their own
lodgings.
CHAPTER 47
AS FOR LOVE!
The time spent by Mrs Lopez at Dovercourt was by no means one of
complete happiness. Her husband did not come down very
frequently, alleging that his business kept him in town, and that
the journey was too long. When he did come he annoyed her either
by moroseness or tyranny, or by an affectation of loving good-
humour, which was the more disagreeable alternative of the two.
She knew that he had not right to be good-humoured, and she was
quite able to appreciate the difference between fictitious love
and love that was real. He did not while she was at Dovercourt
speak to her again directly about her father's money,--but he
gave her to understand that he required from her very close
economy. Then again she referred to the brougham which she knew
was to be in readiness on her return to London, but he told her
that he was the best judge of that. The economy which he
demanded was that comfortless heartrending economy which nips the
practiser at every turn, but does not betray itself to the world
at large. He would have her save out of her washerwoman and
linendraper, and yet have a smart gown and go in a brougham. He
begrudged her postage stamps, and stopped the subscription at
Mudie's, though he insisted on a front seat in the Dovercourt
church, paying half a guinea more for it than he would for a
place at the side. And then before their sojourn at the place
had come to an end he left her for a while absolutely penniless,
so that when the butcher and baker called for their money she
could not pay them. That was a dreadful calamity to her, and of
which she was hardly able to measure the real worth. It had
never happened to her before to have to refuse an application for
money that was due. In her father's house such a thing, as far
as she knew, had never happened. She had sometimes heard that
Everett was impecunious, but that had simply indicated an
additional call upon her father. When the butcher came the
second time she wrote to her husband in an agony. Should she
write to her father for a supply? She was sure that her father
would not leave them in actual want. Then he sent her a cheque,
enclosed in an angry letter. Apply to her father! Had she not
learnt as yet that she was to lean upon her father any longer,
but simply on him? And was she such a fool as to suppose that a
tradesman could not wait a month for his money?
During all this time she had no friend,--no person to whom she
could speak,--except Mrs Parker. Mrs Parker was very open and
very confidential about the business, really knowing very much
more about it than did Mrs Lopez. There was some sympathy and
confidence between her and her husband, though they had latterly
been much lessened by Sexty's conduct. Mrs Parker talked daily
about the business now that her mouth had been opened, and was
very clearly of the opinion that it was not a good business.
'Sexty don't think it good himself,' she said.
'Then why does he go on with it?'
'Business is a thing, Mrs Lopez, as people can't drop out of just
at a moment. A man gets himself entangled, and must free himself
as best he can. I know he's terribly afeard;--and sometimes he
does say such things of your husband!' Emily shrunk almost into
herself as she heard this. 'You mustn't be angry, for indeed
it's better you should know all.'
'I'm not angry; only very unhappy. Surely, Mr Parker could
separate himself from Mr Lopez if he pleased?'
'That's what I say to him. Give it up, though it be ever so much
as you've got to lose by him. Give it up, and begin again.
You've always got your experience, and if it's only a crust you
can earn, that's sure and safe. But then he declares that he
means to pull through, Mrs Lopez. There shouldn't be no need of
pulling through. It should all come just of its own accord,--
little and little, but safe.' Then, when the days of their
marine holiday were coming to an end,--in the first week in
October,--the day before the return of the Parkers to Ponder's
End, she made a strong appeal to her new friend. 'You ain't
afraid of him, are you?'
'Of my husband?' said Mrs Lopez. 'I hope not. Why should you
ask?'
'Believe me, a woman should never be afraid of 'em. I never
would give in to be bullied and made little of by Sexty. I'd do
a'most anything to make him comfortable. I'm soft-hearted. And
why not, when he's the father of my children? But I'm not going
not to say a thing if I think it right, because I'm afeard.'
'I think I could say anything if I thought it right.'
'Then tell him of me and my babes,--as how I can never have a
quiet night while this is going on. It isn't that they two men
are fond of one another. Nothing of the sort. Now you;--I've
got to be downright fond of you, though, of course, you think me
common.' Mrs Lopez would not contradict her but stooped forward
and kissed her cheek. 'I'm downright fond of you, I am,'
continued Mrs Parker, snuffling and sobbing, 'but they two men
are only together because Mr Lopez wants to gamble, and Parker
has got a little money to gamble with.' This aspect of the thing
was so terrible to Mrs Lopez that she could only weep and hid her
face. 'Now, if you would tell him the truth! Tell him what I
say, and that I've been a-saying it! Tell him it's for my
children I'm a-speaking, who won't have bread in their very
mouths if their father's squeezed dry like a sponge! Sure, if
you'd tell him this, he wouldn't go on!' Then she paused a
moment, looking up into the other woman's face. 'He'd have some
bowels of compassion;--wouldn't he now?'
'I'll try,' said Mrs Lopez.
'I know you're good and kind-hearted, my dear. I saw it in your
eyes from the very first. But then men, when they get on at
money-making,--or money-losing, which makes 'em worse,--are
like tigers clawing one another. They don't care how many they
kills, so that they has at least bit for themselves. There ain't
no fear of God init, nor yet no mercy, nor ere a morsel of heart.
It ain't what I call manly,--not that longing after other folk's
money. When it's come by hard work, as I tell Sexty,--by the
very sweat of his brow,--oh,--it's sweet as sweet. When he'd
tell me that he'd made his three pound, or his five pound, or,
perhaps, his ten in a day, and'd calculate it up, how much it'd
come to if he did that every day, and where we could go to, and
what we could do for the children, I loved to hear him talk about
money. But now--! why, it's altered the looks of the man
altogether. It's just as though he was a-thirsting for blood.'
Thirsting for blood! Yes, indeed. It was the very idea that had
occurred to Mrs Lopez herself when her husband bade her to 'get
round her father'. No;--it certainly was not manly. There
certainly was neither the fear of God in it, nor mercy. Yes;--
she would try. But as for bowels of compassion in Ferdinand
Lopez--; she, the young wife, had already seen enough of her
husband to think that he was not to be moved by any prayers on
that side. Then the two women bade each other farewell. 'Parker
has been talking of my going to Manchester Square,' said Mrs
Parker, 'but I shan't. What'd I be in Manchester Square? And,
besides, there'd better be an end of it. Mr Lopez'd turn Sexty
and me out of the house at a moment's notice if it wasn't for the
money.'
'It's papa's house,' said Mrs Lopez, not, however, meaning to
make an attack upon her husband.
'I suppose so, but I shan't come to trouble no one, and we live
ever so far away, at Ponder's End,--out or your line altogether,
Mrs Lopez. But I've taken to you and will never think ill of you
in any way--and do as you said you would.'
'I will try,' said Mrs Lopez.
In the meantime Lopez received from Mr Wharton an answer to his
letter about the missing caravels, which did not please him.
Here is the letter:
MY DEAR LOPEZ,
I cannot say that your statement is satisfactory, nor can
I reconcile it to your assurance to me that you have made
a trade income for some years past of 2,000 pounds a
year. I do not know much of business, but I cannot
imagine such a result from such a condition of things as
you describe. Have you any books; and if so, will you
allow them to be inspected by any accountant that I may
name?
You say that a sum of 20,000 pounds would suit your
business better now than when I am dead. Very likely.
But with such an account of the business as that you have
given me, I do not know that I feel disposed to confide
my savings of my life to assist so very doubtful an
enterprise. Of course whatever I may do to your
advantage will be done for the sake of Emily and her
children, should she have any. As far I can see at
present, I shall best do my duty to her, by leaving what
I may have to leave to her, to trustees, for her benefit
and that of her children.
Yours truly,
A. WHARTON
This, of course, did not tend to mollify the spirit of the man to
whom it was written, or to make him gracious towards his wife.
He received the letter three weeks before the lodgings at
Dovercourt were given up,--but during these three weeks he was
very little at the place, and when there did not mention the
letter. On these occasions he said nothing about business, but
satisfied himself with giving strict injunctions as to economy.
Then he took her back to town on the day after her promise to Mrs
Parker that she would 'try'. Mrs Parker had told her that no
woman ought to be afraid to speak to her husband, and, if
necessary, to speak roundly on such subjects. Mrs Parker was
certainly not a highly educated lady, but she had impressed Emily
with an admiration for her practical good sense and proper
feeling. The lady who was a lady had begun to feel that in the
troubles of her life she might find a much less satisfactory
companion than the lady who was not a lady. She would do as Mrs
Parker had told her. She would not be afraid. Of course it was
right that she should speak on such a matter. She knew herself
to be an obedient wife. She had borne all her unexpected sorrows
without a complaint, with a resolve that she would bear all for
his sake,--not because she loved him, but because she had made
herself his wife. Into whatever calamities he might fall, she
would share them. Though he should bring her utterly into the
dirt, she would remain in that dirt with him. It seemed probable
to her that it might be so;--that they might have to go into the
dirt;--and if it were so, she would still be true to him. She
had chosen to marry him, and she would be a true wife. But, as
such, she would not be afraid of him. Mrs Parker had told her
that 'a woman should never be afraid of 'em', and she believed in
Mrs Parker. In this case, too, it was clearly her duty to speak,
--for the injury being done was terrible, and might too probably
become tragical. How could she endure to think of that woman and
her children, should she come to know that the husband of the
woman and the father of the children had been ruined by her
husband?
Yes;--she would speak to him. But she did fear. It is all very
well for a woman to tell herself that she will encounter some
anticipated difficulty without fear,--or for a man either. The
fear cannot be overcome by will. The thing, however, may be
done, whether it be leading a forlorn hope, or speaking to an
angry husband,--in spite of fear. She would do it; but when the
moment for doing it came, her very heart trembled within her. He
had been so masterful with her, so persistent in repudiating her
interference, so exacting in his demands for obedience, so
capable of making her miserable by his moroseness when she failed
to comply with his wishes, that she could not go to her task
without fear. But she did feel that she ought not to be afraid,
or that her fears, at any rate, should not be allowed to restrain
her. A wife, she knew, should be prepared to yield, but yet was
entitled to be her husband's counsellor. And it was now the case
that in this matter she was conversant with circumstances which
were unknown to her husband. It was to her that Mrs Parker's
appeal had been made, and with a direct request from the poor
woman that it should be repeated to her husband's partner.
She found that she could not do it on the journey home from
Dovercourt, nor yet on that evening. Mrs Dick Roby, who had come
back from sojourn at Boulogne, was with them in the Square, and
brought her dear friend Mrs Leslie with her, and also Lady
Eustace. The reader may remember that Mr Wharton had met these
ladies at Mrs Dick's house some months before his daughter's
marriage, but he certainly had never asked them into his own. On
this occasion Emily had given them no invitation, but had been
told by her husband that her aunt would probably bring them with
her. 'Mrs Leslie and Lady Eustace!' she exclaimed with a little
shudder. 'I suppose your aunt may bring a couple of friends with
her to see you, though it is your father's house?' he had
replied. She had said no more, not daring to have a fight on
that subject at present, while the other matter was pressing on
her mind. The evening passed away pleasantly enough, she
thought, to all except herself. Mrs Leslie and Lady Eustace had
talked a great deal, and her husband had borne himself quite as
though he had been a wealthy man and the owner of the house in
Manchester Square. In the course of the evening Dick Roby came
in and Major Pountney, who since the late affairs at Silverbridge
had become intimate with Lopez. So that there was quite a party;
and Emily was astonished to hear her husband declare that he was
only watching the opportunity of another vacancy in order that he
might get into the House, and expose the miserable duplicity of
the Duke of Omnium. And yet this man, within the last month, had
taken away her subscription at Mudie's, and told her that she
shouldn't wear things that wanted washing! But he was able to
say so ever many pretty little things to Lady Eustace, and had
given a new fan to Mrs Dick, and talked of taking a box for Mrs
Leslie at The Gaiety.
But on the next morning before breakfast she began. 'Ferdinand,'
she said, 'while I was at Dovercourt I saw a good deal of Mrs
Parker.'
'I could not help that. Or rather you might have helped it if
you pleased. It was necessary that you should meet, but I didn't
tell you that you were to see a great deal of her.'
'I liked her very much.'
'Then I must say you've got a very odd taste. Did you like him?'
'No. I did not see very much of him, and I think that the
manners of women are less objectionable than those of men. But I
want to tell you what passed between her and me.'
'If it is about her husband's business she ought to have held her
tongue, and you had better hold yours now.'
This was not a happy beginning, but still she was determined to
go on. 'It was I think more about your business than his.'
'Then it was infernal impudence on her part, and you should not
have listened to her for a moment.'
'You do not want to ruin her and her children?'
'What have I to do with her and her children? I did not marry
her, and I am not their father. He has got to look to that.'
'She thinks you are enticing him into risks which he cannot
afford.'
'Am I doing anything for him that I ain't doing for myself! If
there is money made, will not he share it? If money has to be
lost, of course he must do the same.' Lopez stating his case
omitted to say that whatever capital was now being used belonged
to his partner. 'But women when they get together talk all
manner of nonsense. Is it likely that I shall alter my course of
action because you tell me that she tells you that he tells her
that he is losing money? He is a half-hearted fellow who quails
at every turn against him. And when he is crying drunk I dare
say he makes a poor mouth to her.'
'I think, Ferdinand, it is more than that. She says that--'
'To tell the truth, Emily, I don't give a d--what she says. Now
give me some tea.'
The roughness of this absolutely quelled her. It was not now
that she was afraid of him, but that she was knocked down as
though by a blow. She had been altogether so unused to such
language that she could not get on with her matter in hand,
letting the bad word pass by her as an unmeaning expletive. She
wearily poured out the cup of tea and sat herself down silent.
The man was too strong for her, and would be so always. She told
herself at this moment that language such as that must always
absolutely silence her. Then, within a few minutes, he desired
her, quite cheerfully, to ask her uncle and aunt to dinner the
day but one following, and also to ask Lady Eustace and Mrs
Leslie. 'I will pick up a couple of men which will make us all
right,' he said.
This was in every way horrible to her. Her father had been back
in town, had not been very well, and had been recommended to
return to the country. He had consequently removed himself,--
not to Hertfordshire,--but to Brighton, and was now living at an
hotel, almost within an hour of London. Had he been at home he
certainly would not have invited Mrs Leslie and Lady Eustace to
his house. He had often expressed a feeling of dislike to the
former lady in the hearing of his son-in-law, and had ridiculed
his sister-in-law for allowing herself to be acquainted with Lady
Eustace, whose name had at one time been very common in the
mouths of people. Emily also felt that she was hardly entitled
to give a dinner party in his house in his absence. And, after
all that she had lately heard about her husband's poverty, she
could not understand how he should wish to incur the expense.
'You would not ask Mrs Leslie here!' she said.
'Why should we not ask Mrs Leslie?'
'Papa dislikes her.'
'But "papa", as you call him, isn't going to meet her.'
'He has said that he doesn't know what day he may be home. And
he does more than dislike her. He disapproves of her.'
'Nonsense! She is your aunt's friend. Because your father once
heard some cock-and-bull story about her, and because he has
always taken it upon himself to criticize your aunt's friends, I
am not to be civil to a person I like.'
'But, Ferdinand, I do not like her myself. She never was in this
house till that other night.'
'Look here, my dear. Lady Eustace can be useful to me, and I
cannot ask Lady Eustace without asking her friend. You do as I
bid you,--or else I shall do it myself.'
She paused for a moment, and then she positively refused. 'I
cannot bring myself to ask Mrs Leslie to dine in this house. If
she comes to dine with you, of course I shall sit at the table,
but she will be sure to see that she is not welcome.'
'It seems to me that you are determined to go against me in
everything I propose.'
'I don't think you would say that if you knew how miserable yo
made me.'
'I tell you that that other woman can be very useful to me.'
'In what way useful?'
'Are you jealous, my dear?'
'Certainly not of Lady Eustace,--nor of any woman. But it seems
so odd that such a person's services should be required.'
'Will you do as I tell you, and ask them? You can go round and
tell your aunt about it. She knows that I mean to ask them.
Lady Eustace is a very rich woman, and is disposed to do a little
in commerce. Now do you understand?'
'Not in the least,' said Emily.
'Why shouldn't a woman who has money buy coffee as well as buy
shares?'
'Does she buy shares?'
'By George, Emily, I think you are a fool.'
'I dare say I am, Ferdinand. I do not in the least know what it
all means. But I do know this, that you ought not, in papa's
absence, to ask people to dine here whom he particularly
dislikes, and whom he would not wish to have in the house.'
'You think I am to be governed by you in such a matter as that?'
'I don't want to govern you.'
'You think that a wife should dictate to a husband as to the way
in which he is to do his work, and the partners he may be allowed
to have in his business, and the persons whom he may ask to
dinner! Because you have been dictating to me on all these
matters. Now, look here, my dear. As to my business, you had
better never speak to me about it any more. I have endeavoured
to take you into my confidence and to get you to act with me, but
you have declined that, and have preferred to stick to your
father. As to my partners, whether I may choose to have Sexty
Parker or Lady Eustace, I am a better judge thanyou. And as to
asking Mrs Leslie and Lady Eustace or any other persons to
dinner, as I am obliged to make even the recreation of life
subservient to work, I must claim permission to have my own way.'
She had listened, but when he paused she made no reply. 'Do you
mean to do as I bid and ask these ladies?'
'I cannot do that. I know that it ought not to be done. This is
papa's house, and we are living here as his guests.'
'D--your papa!' he said as he burst out of the room. After a
quarter of an hour he put his head into the room and saw her
sitting, like a statue, exactly where he had left her. 'I have
written the notes to Lady Eustace and to Mrs Leslie,' he said.
'You can't think it any sin at any rate to ask your aunt.'
'I will see my aunt,' she said.
'And remember I am not going to be your father's guest as you
call it. I mean to pay for the dinner myself, and to send in my
own wines. Your father shall have nothing to complain of on that
head.'
'Could you not ask them to Richmond, or to some hotel?' she said.
'What, in October! If you think I am going to live in a house in
which I can't invite a friend to dinner, you are mistaken.' And
with that he took his departure.
The whole thing had now become so horrible to her that she felt
unable any longer to hold up her head. It seemed to her to be
sacrilege that these women should come and sit in her father's
room, but when she spoke of her father her husband had cursed him
with scorn! Lopez was going to send food and wine into the
house, which would be gall and wormwood to her father. At one
time she thought she would at once write to her father and tell
him of it all,--or perhaps telegraph to him; but she could not
do so without letting her husband know what she had done, and
then he would have justice on his side in calling her
disobedient. Were she to do that, then it would indeed be
necessary that she should take part against her husband.
She had brought all this misery on herself and on her father
because she had been obstinate in thinking she could with
certainty read a lover's character. As for love,--that of
course had died away in her heart,--imperceptibly, though, alas,
so quickly! It was impossible that she could continue to love a
man who from day to day was teaching her mean lessons, and who
was ever doing mean things, the meanness of which was so little
apparent to himself that he did not scruple to divulge them to
her. How could she love a man who would make no sacrifice either
to her comfort or her pride, or her conscience? But still she
might obey him,--if she could feel sure that obedience to him
was a duty. Could it be a duty to sin against her father's
wishes, and to assist in profaning his house and abusing his
hospitality after this fashion? Then her mind again went back to
the troubles of Mrs Parker, and her absolute inefficiency in that
matter. It seemed to her that she had given herself over body
and soul and mind to some evil genius, and that there was no
escape.
'Of course we'll come,' said Mrs Roby had said to her when she
went round the corner into Berkeley Street early in the day.
'Lopez spoke to me about it before.'
'What will papa say about it, Aunt Harriet?'
'I suppose he and Lopez understand each other.'
'I do not think papa will understand this.'
'I am sure Mr Wharton would not lend his house to his son-in-law
and then object to the man he had lent it to asking a friend to
dine with him. And I am sure that Mr Lopez would not consent to
occupy a house on those terms. If you don't like it, of course
we won't come.'
'Pray do not say that. As these other women are to come, pray do
not desert me. But I cannot say I think it is right.' Mrs Dick,
however, only laughed at her scruples.
In the course of the evening Emily got letters addressed to
herself, from Lady Eustace and Mrs Leslie, informing her that
they would have very much pleasure in dining with her on the day
named. And Lady Eustace went on to say, with much pleasantry,
that she always regarded little parties, got up without any
ceremony, as being the pleasantest, and that she should come on
this occasion without any ceremonial observance. Then Emily was
aware that her husband had not only written the notes in her
name, but had put into her mouth some studied apology as to the
shortness of the invitation. Well! She was the man's wife, and
she supposed that he was entitled to put any words that he please
into her mouth.
CHAPTER 48
'HAS HE ILL-TREATED YOU?'
Lopez relieved his wife from all care as to provision for his
guests. 'I've been to a shop in Wigmore Street,' he said, 'and
everything will be done. They'll send in a cook to make the
things hot, and your father won't have to pay even for a crust of
bread.'
'Papa doesn't mind paying for anything,' she said in her
indignation.
'It is all very pretty for you to say so, but my experience of
him goes just the other way. At any rate there will be nothing
to be paid for. Stewam and Sugarscraps will send in everything,
if you'll only tell the old fogies downstairs not to interfere.'
Then she made a little request. Might she ask Everett who was
now in town? 'I've already got Major Pountney and Captain
Gunner,' he said. She pleaded that one more would make no
difference. 'But that's just what one more always does. It
destroys everything, and turns a pretty little dinner into an
awkward feed. We won't have him this time. Pountney'll take
you, and I'll take her ladyship. Dick will take Mrs Leslie, and
Gunner will have Aunt Harriet. Dick will sit opposite to me, and
the four ladies will sit at the four corners. We shall be very
pleasant, but one more would spoil us.'
She did speak to the 'old fogies' downstairs,--the housekeeper,
who had lived with her father since she was a child, and the
butler, who had been there still longer, and the cook, who,
having been in her place only three years, resigned impetuously
within half an hour after the advent of Mr Sugarscaps' head man.
The 'fogies' were indignant. The butler expressed his intention
of locking himself up in his own peculiar pantry, and the
housekeeper took it upon herself to tell her young mistress that
'Master wouldn't like it'. Since she had known Mr Wharton such a
thing as cooked food being sent into the house from a shop had
never been so much as heard of. Emily, who had hitherto been
regarded in the house as a rather strong-minded young woman,
could only break down and weep. Why, oh why, had she consented
to bring herself and her misery into her father's house? She
could at any rate have prevented that by explaining to her father
the unfitness of such an arrangement.
The 'party' came. There was Major Pountney, very fine, rather
loud, very intimate with the host, whom on one occasion had
called 'Ferdy, my boy', and very full of abuse of the Duke and
Duchess of Omnium. 'And yet she was a good creature when I knew
her', said Lady Eustace. Pountney suggested that the Duchess had
not then taken up politics. 'I've got out of her way,' said Lady
Eustace, 'since she did that.' And there was Captain Gunner, who
defended the Duchess, but who acknowledged that the Duke was the
'most consumedly stuck up coxcomb' then existing. 'And the most
dishonest', said Lopez, who had told his new friends nothing
about the repayment of the election expenses. And Dick was
there. He liked these little parties, in which a good deal of
wine could be drunk, and at which ladies were not supposed to be
very stiff. The Major and the Captain, and Mrs Leslie and Lady
Eustace, were such people as he liked,--all within the pale, but
having a piquant relish of fastness and impropriety. Dick was
wont to declare that he hated the world in buckram. Aunt Harriet
was triumphant in a manner which disgusted Emily, and which she
thought to be most disrespectful to her father;--but in truth
Aunt Harriett did not now care very much for Mr Wharton,
preferring the friendship of Mr Wharton's son-in-law. Mrs Leslie
came in gorgeous clothes, which, as she was known to be very
poor, and to have attached herself lately with almost more than
feminine affection to Lady Eustace, were at any rate open to
suspicious cavil. In former days Mrs Leslie had taken upon
herself to say bitter things about Mr Lopez, which Emily could
now have repeated, to that lady's discomfiture, had such a mode
of revenge suited her disposition. With Mrs Leslie there was
Lady Eustace, pretty as ever, and sharp and witty, with the old
passion for some excitement, the old proneness to pretend to
trust everybody, and the old capacity for trusting nobody.
Ferdinand Lopez had lately been at her feet, and had fired her
imagination with stories of the grand things to be done in trade.
Ladies do it? Yes; why not women as well as men? Anyone might
do it who had money in his pocket and experience to tell him or
to tell her, what to buy and what to sell. And the experience,
luckily, might be vicarious. At the present moment half the
jewels worn in London were,--if Ferdinand Lopez knew anything
about it,--bought from the proceeds of such commerce. Of course
there were misfortunes. But these came from a want of that
experience which Ferdinand Lopez possessed, and which he was
quite willing to place at the service of one whom he admired so
thoroughly as he did Lady Eustace. Lady Eustace had been
charmed, had seen her way into a new and most delightful life,--
but had not yet put any of her money into the hands of Ferdinand
Lopez.
I cannot say that the dinner was good. It may be a doubt whether
such tradesmen as Messrs Stewam and Sugarscraps do ever produce
good food;--or whether, with all the will in the world to do so,
such a result is within their power. It is certain, I think,
that the humblest mutton chop is better eating than any 'Supreme
of chicken after martial manner',--as I have seen the dish named
in a French bill of fare, translated by a French pastrycook for
the benefit of his English customers,--when sent in from Messrs
Stewam and Sugarscraps even with their best exertions. Nor can
it be said that the wine was good, though Mr Sugarscraps, when he
contracted for the whole entertainment, was eager in his
assurance that he procured the very best that London could
produce. But the outside look of the things was handsome, and
there were many dishes, and enough servants to hand them, and the
wines, if not good, were various. Probably Pountney and Gunner
did not know good wines. Roby did, but was contented on this
occasion to drink them bad. And everything went pleasantly, with
perhaps a little too much noise;--everything except the hostess,
who was allowed by general consent to be sad and silent,--till
there came a loud double-rap at the door.
'There's papa,' said Emily, jumping up from her seat.
Mrs Dick looked at Lopez, and saw at a glance for a moment his
courage had failed him. But he recovered himself quickly.
'Hadn't you better keep your seat, my dear?' he said to his wife.
'The servants will attend to Mr Wharton, and I will go to him
presently.'
'Oh, no,' said Emily, who by this time was almost at the door.
'You didn't expect him,--did you?' asked Dick Roby.
'Nobody knew when he was coming. I think he told Emily that he
might be here any day.'
'He's the most uncertain man alive,' said Mrs Dick, who was a
good deal scared by the arrival, though determined to hold up her
head and exhibit no fear.
'I suppose the old gentleman will come and have some dinner,'
whispered Captain Gunner to his neighbour Mrs Leslie.
'Not if he knows I'm here,' replied Mrs Leslie, tittering. 'He
thinks that I am,--oh, something a great deal worse than I can
tell you.'
'Is he given to be cross?' asked Lady Eustace, also affecting to
whisper.
'Never saw him in my life,' answered the major, 'but I shouldn't
wonder if he was. Old gentlemen generally are cross. Gout, and
that kind of thing, you know.'
For a minute or two the servants stopped in their ministrations,
and things were very uncomfortable; but Lopez, as soon as he had
recovered himself, directed Mr Sugarscraps' men to proceed with
the banquet. 'We can eat our dinner, I suppose, though my
father-in-law has come back,' he said. 'I wish my wife was not
so fussy, though that is the kind of thing, Lady Eustace, that
one must expect from young wives.' The banquet did go on, but
the feeling was general that a misfortune had come upon them, and
that something dreadful might possibly happen.
Emily, when she rushed out, met her father in the hall, and ran
into his arms. 'Oh, papa!' she exclaimed.
'What's all this about?' he asked, and as he spoke he passed on
through the hall to his own room at the back of the house. There
were of course many evidences on all sides of the party,--the
strange servants, the dishes going in and out, the clatter of
glasses, and the smell of viands. 'You've got a dinner party,'
he said. 'Had you not better go back to your friends?'
'No, papa.'
'What is the matter, Emily? You are unhappy.'
'Oh, so unhappy?'
'What is it all about? Who are they? Whose doing is it,--yours
or his? What makes you unhappy?'
He was now seated in his arm-chair, and she threw herself on her
knees at his feet. 'He would have them. You mustn't be angry
with me. You won't be angry with me;--will you?'
He put his hand upon her head, and stroked her hair. 'Why should
I be angry with you because your husband has asked friends to
dinner?' She was so unlike her usual self that he knew not what
to make of it. It had not been her nature to kneel and ask for
pardon, or to be timid and submissive. 'What is it, Emily, that
makes you like this?'
'He shouldn't have had the people.'
'Well;--granted. But it does not signify much. Is your Aunt
Harriet here?'
'Yes.'
'It can't be very bad, then.'
'Mrs Leslie is here, and Lady Eustace,--and two men I don't
like.'
'Is Everett here?'
'No;--he wouldn't have Everett.'
'Oughtn't you go to them?'
'Don't make me go. I should only cry. I have been crying all
day, and the whole of yesterday.' Then she buried her face upon
his knees, and sobbed as though she would break her heart.
He couldn't at all understand it. Though he distrusted his son-
in-law, and certainly did not love him, he had not as yet learned
to hold him in aversion. When the connection was once made he
had determined to make the best of it, and had declared to
himself that as far as manners went the man was well enough. He
had not as yet seen the inside of the man, as it had been the sad
fate of the poor wife to see him. It had never occurred to him
that his daughter's love had failed her, or that she could
already be repenting what she had done. And now, when she was
weeping at his feet and deploring the sin of the dinner party,--
which, after all, was a trifling sin,--he could not comprehend
the feelings which were actuating her. 'I suppose your Aunt
Harriet made up the party,' he said.
'He did it.'
'Your husband?'
'Yes;--he did it. He wrote to the women in my name when I
refused.' Then Mr Wharton began to perceive that there had been
a quarrel. 'I told him Mrs Leslie oughtn't to come here.'
'I don't love Mrs Leslie,--nor, for the matter of that,--Lady
Eustace. But they won't hurt the house, my dear.'
'And he has had the dinner sent in from a shop.'
'Why couldn't he let Mrs Williams do it?' As he said this, the
tone of his voice for the first time became angry.
'Cook has gone away. She wouldn't stand it. And Mrs Williams is
very angry. And Barker wouldn't wait at table.'
'What's the meaning of it all?'
'He would have it so. Oh, papa, you don't know what I've
undergone. I wish,--I wish we had not come here. It would have
been better anywhere else.'
'What would have been better, dear?'
'Everything. Whether we lived or died, it would have been
better. Why should I bring my misery to you? Oh, papa, you do
not know,--you can never know.'
'But I must know. Is there more than this dinner to disturb
you?'
Oh, yes;--more than that. Only I couldn't bear that it should
be done in your house.'
'Has he--ill-treated you?'
Then she got up, and stood before him. 'I do not mean to
complain. I should have said nothing only that you have found us
in this way. For myself I will bear it all, whatever it may be.
But, papa, I want you to tell him that we must leave this house.'
'He has got no other home for you.'
'He must find one. I will go anywhere. I don't care where it
is. But I won't stay here. I have done it myself, but I won't
bring it upon you. I could bear it all if I thought that you
would never see me again.'
'Emily!'
'Yes;--if you would never see me again. I know it all, and that
would be best.' She was now walking about the room. 'Why should
you see it all?'
'See what, my love?'
'See his ruin, and my unhappiness, and my baby. Oh--oh--oh!'
'I think so very differently, Emily, that under no circumstances
will I have you taken to another home. I cannot understand much
of all this as yet, but I suppose that I shall come to see it.
If Lopez be, as you say, ruined, it is well that I have still
enough for us to live on. This is a bad time just now to talk
about your husband's affairs.'
'I did not mean to talk about them, papa.'
'What would you like best to do now,--now at once. Can you go
down again to your husband's friends?'
'No;--no;--no.'
'As for the dinner, never mind about that. I can't blame him for
making use of my house in my absence, as far as that goes,--
though I wish he could have contented himself with such a dinner
as my servants could have prepared for him. I will have some tea
here.'
'Let me stay with you, papa, and make it for you.'
'Very well, dear. I do not mean to be ashamed to enter my own
dining-room. I shall, therefore, go in and make your apologies.'
Thereupon Mr Wharton walked slowly forth, and marched into the
dining-room.
'Oh, Mr Wharton,' said Mrs Dick, 'we didn't expect you.'
'Have you dined yet, sir?' asked Lopez.
'I have dined early,' said Mr Wharton. 'I should not now have
come in to disturb you, but that I have found Mrs Lopez unwell,
and she has begged me to ask you to excuse her.'
'I will go to her,' said Lopez, rising.
'It is not necessary,' said Wharton. 'She is not ill, but hardly
able to take her place at table.' Then Mrs Dick proposed to go
to her dear niece, but Mr Wharton would not allow it, and left
the room, having succeeded in persuading them to go on with their
dinner. Lopez certainly was not happy during the evening, but he
was strong enough to hide his misgivings, and to do his duty as
host with seeming cheerfulness.
CHAPTER 49
WHERE IS GUATEMALA?
Though his daughter's words to him had been very wild they did
almost more to convince Mr Wharton that he should not give his
money to his son-in-law than even the letters which had passed
between them. To Emily herself he spoke very little as to what
had occurred that evening. 'Papa,' she said, 'do not ask me
anything more about it. I was very miserable,--because of the
dinner.' Nor did he at that time ask her any questions,
contenting himself with assuring her that, at any rate at
present, and till after her baby should have been born, she must
remain at Manchester Square. 'He won't hurt me,' said Mr
Wharton, and than added with a smile, 'He won't want to have any
more dinner parties while I am here.'
Nor did he make any complaint to Lopez as to what had been done,
or even allude to the dinner. But when he had been back about a
week he announced to his son-in-law his final determination as to
money. 'I had better tell you, Lopez, what I mean to do, so that
you may not be left in doubt. I shall not entrust any further
sum of money into your hands on behalf of Emily.'
'You can do as you please, sir,--of course.'
'Just so. You have had what to me is a very considerable sum,--
though I fear that it did not go for much in your large concern.'
'It was not very much, Mr Wharton.'
'I dare say not. Opinions on such a matter differ, you know. At
any rate there will be no more. At present I wish Emily to live
here, and you, of course, are welcome here also. If things are
not going well with you, this will, at any rate, relieve you from
immediate expense.
'Mine are more minute. The necessities of my life have caused me
to think of these little things. When I am dead there will be
provision for Emily made by my will;--the income going to
trustees for her benefit, and the capital to her children after
her death. I thought it only fair to you that this should be
explained.'
'And you will do nothing for me?'
'Nothing;--if that is nothing. I should have thought that your
present maintenance and the future support of your wife and
children would have been regarded as something.'
'It is nothing;--nothing!'
'Then let it be nothing. Good morning.'
Two days after that Lopez recurred to the subject. 'You were
very explicit with me the other day, sir.'
'I meant to be so.'
'And I will be equally so to you now. Both I and your daughter
are absolutely ruined unless you reconsider your purpose.'
'If you mean money by reconsideration;--present money to be
given to you,--I certainly shall not reconsider it. You may
take my solemn assurance that I will give you nothing that can be
of any service to you in trade.'
Then, sir,--I must tell you my purpose, and give you my
assurance, which is equally solemn. Under those circumstances I
must leave England, and try my fortune in Central America. There
is an opening for me at Guatemala, though not a very hopeful
one.'
'Guatemala!'
'Yes;--friends of mine have a connection there. I have not
broken it to Emily yet, but under these circumstances she will
have to go.'
'You will not take her to Guatemala!'
'Not take my wife, sir? Indeed I shall. Do you suppose that I
would go away and leave my wife a pensioner on your bounty? Do
you think that she would wish to desert her husband? I don't
think you know your daughter.'
'I wish you had never known her.'
'That is neither here not there, sir. If I cannot succeed in
this country I must go elsewhere. As I have told you before
20,000 pounds at the present moment would enable me to surmount
all my difficulties, and make me a very wealthy man. But unless
I can command some such sum by Christmas everything here must be
sacrificed.'
'Never in my life did I hear so base a proposition,' said Mr
Wharton.
'Why is it base? I can only tell you the truth.'
'So be it. You will find that I have meant what I said.'
'So do I, Mr Wharton.'
'As to my daughter, she must, of course, do as she thinks fit.'
'She must do as I think fit, Mr Wharton.'
'I will not argue with you. Alas, alas, poor girl.'
'Poor girl indeed! She is likely to be a poor girl if she is
treated in this way by her father. As I understand that you
intend to use, or to try to use, authority over her, I shall take
steps for removing her at once from your house.' And so the
interview was ended.
Lopez had thought the matter over, and had determined to 'brazen
it out', as he himself called it. Nothing further was, he
thought, to be got by civility and obedience. Now he must use
his power. His idea of going to Guatemala was not an invention
of the moment, nor was it devoid of a certain basis of truth.
Such a suggestion had been made to him some time since by Mr
Mills Happerton. There were mines in Guatemala which wanted, or
at some future date, might want, a resident director. The
proposition had been made to Lopez before his marriage, and Mr
Happerton probably had now forgotten all about it;--but the
thing was of service now. He broke the matter very suddenly to
his wife. 'Has your father been speaking to you of my plans?'
'Not lately;--not that I remember.'
'He could not speak of them without your remembering, I should
think. Has he told you that I am going to Guatemala?'
'Guatemala! Where is Guatemala, Ferdinand?'
'You can answer my question though your geography is deficient.'
'He has said nothing about your going anywhere.'
'You will have to go,--as soon after Christmas as you may be
fit.'
'But where is Guatemala;--and for how long, Ferdinand?'
'Guatemala is in Central America, and we shall probably settle
there for the rest of our lives. I have got nothing to live on
here.'
During the next two months this plan of seeking a distant home
and a strange country was constantly spoken of in Manchester
Square, and did receive corroboration from Mr Happerton himself.
Lopez renewed his application and received a letter saying that
the thing might probably be arranged if he were in earnest. 'I
am quite earnest,' Lopez said as he showed the letter to Mr
Wharton. 'I suppose Emily will be able to start two months after
her confinement. They tell me babies do very well at sea.'
During this time, in spite of his threat, he continued to live
with Mr Wharton in Manchester Square, and went every day into the
city,--whether to make arrangements and receive instructions as
to Guatemala, or to carry on his old business, neither Emily nor
her father knew. He never at this time spoke about his affairs
to either of them, but daily referred to her future expatriation
as a thing that was certain. At last there came up the actual
question,--whether she were to go or not. Her father told her
that though she was doubtless bound by law to obey her husband, in
such a matter as this she might defy the law. 'I do not think
that he can actually force you on board the ship,' her father
said.
'But if he tells me I must go?'
'Stay with me,' said the father. 'Stay here with your baby.
I'll fight it out for you. I'll so manage that you shall have
all the world on your side.'
Emily at the moment came to no decision, but on the following day
she discussed the matter with Lopez himself. 'Of course you will
go with me,' he said, when she asked the question.
'You mean that I must, whether I wish to go or not.'
'Certainly you must. Good G-! Where is a wife's place? Am I to
go without my child, and without you, while you are enjoying all
the comforts of your father's wealth at home? That is not my
idea of life.'
'Ferdinand, I have been thinking about it very much. I must beg
you to allow me to remain. I ask it of you as if I were asking
my life.'
'Your father has put you up to this.'
'No;--not to this.'
'To what then.'
'My father thinks I should refuse to go.'
'He does, does he?'
'But I shall not refuse. I shall go if you insist upon it.
There shall be no contest between us about that.'
'Well, I should hope not.'
'But I do implore you to spare me.'
'That is very selfish, Emily.'
'Yes,'--she said, 'yes, I cannot contradict that. But so is the
man selfish who prays the judge to spare his life.'
'But you do not think of me. I must go.'
'I shall not make you happier, Ferdinand.'
'Do you think that it is a fine thing for a man to live in such a
country as that all alone?'
'I think it would be better so than with a wife he does not--
love.'
'Who says I do not love you?'
'Or with one who does--not--love him.' This she said very
slowly, very softly, but looking up into his eyes as she said it.
'Do you tell me that to my face?'
'Yes;--what good can I do now by lying? You have not been to me
as I thought you would be.'
'And, because you have built some castle in the air that has
fallen to pieces, you tell your husband to his face that you do
not love him, and that you prefer not to live with him. Is that
your idea of duty?'
'Why have you been so cruel?'
'Cruel! What have I done? Tell me what cruelty. Have I beat
you? Have you been starved? Have I not asked and implored your
assistance,--only to be refused? The fact is that your father
and you have found out that I am not a rich man, and you want to
be rid of me. Is that true or false?'
'It is not true that I want to be rid of you because you are
poor.'
'I do not mean to be rid of you. You will have to settle down
and do your work as my wife in whatever place it may suit me to
live. Your father is a rich man, but you shall not have the
advantage of his wealth unless it comes to you, as it ought to
come, through my hands. If your father would give me the fortune
which ought to be yours there need be no going abroad. He cannot
bear to part with his money, and therefore we must go. Now you
know all about it.' She was then turning to leave him, when he
asked her a direct question. 'Am I to understand that you intend
to resist my right to take you with me?'
'If you bid me go,--I shall go.'
'It will be better, as you will save both trouble and expense.'
Of course she told her father what had taken place; but he could
only shake his head, and groaning over his misery in his
chambers. He had explained to her what he was willing to do on
her behalf, but she declined his aid. He could not tell her that
she was wrong. She was the man's wife, and out of that terrible
destiny she could not now escape. The only question with him was
whether it would not be best to buy the man,--give him a some of
money to go, and to go alone. Could he have been quit of the man
even for 20,000 pounds, he would willingly have paid the money.
But the man would either not go, or would come back as soon as he
got the money. His own life, as he passed it now, with this man
in the house with him, was horrible to him. For Lopez, though he
had more than once threatened that he would carry his wife to
another home, had taken no steps towards getting that other house
ready for her.
During all this time Mr Wharton had not seen his son. Everett
had gone abroad just as his father returned to London from
Brighton, and was still on the continent. He received his
allowance punctually, and that was the only intercourse which
took place between them. But Emily had written to him, not
telling him much of her troubles,--only saying that she believed
her husband would take her to Central America early in the
spring, and begging him to come home before she went.
Just before Christmas her baby was born, but the poor child did
not live a couple of days. She herself at the time was so worn
with care, so thin and wan and wretched, that looking in the
glass she hardly knew her own face. 'Ferdinand,' she said to
him, 'I know he will not live. The Doctor says so.'
'Noting thrives that I have to do with,' he answered gloomily.
'Will you not look at him?'
'Well; yes. I have looked at him, have I not? I wish to God
that where he is going I could go with him.'
'I wish I was;--I wish I was going,' said the poor mother. Then
the father went out, and before he had returned to the house the
child was dead. 'Oh, Ferdinand, speak one kind word to me now,'
she said.
'What kind word can I speak when you have told me that you do not
love me. Do you think that I can forget that because, because he
has gone?'
'A woman's love may always be won back by kindness.'
'Psha! How am I to kiss and make pretty speeches with my mind
harassed as it is now?' But he did touch her brow with his lips
before he went away.
The infant was buried, and then there was not much show of
mourning in the house. The poor mother would sit gloomily alone
day after day, telling herself that it was perhaps better that
she should have been robbed of her treasure than have gone forth
with him into the wide, unknown, harsh world with such a father
as she had given him. Then she would look at all the
preparations she had made,--the happy work of her fingers when
her thoughts of their future use were her sweetest consolation,--
and weep till she would herself feel that there never could be an
end to her tears.
The second week in January had come and yet nothing further had
been settled as to the Guatemala project. Lopez talked about it
as though it was certain, and even told his wife as they would
move so soon it would not be now worth while for him to take
other lodgings for her. But when she asked as to her own
preparations,--the wardrobe necessary for the long voyage and
her general outfit,--he told her that three weeks or a fortnight
would be enough for all, and that he would give her sufficient
notice. 'Upon my word he is very kind to honour my poor house as
he does,' said Mr Wharton.
'Papa, we will go at once if you wish it,' said his daughter.
'Nay, Emily; do not turn upon me. I cannot but be sensible to
the insult of his daily presence, but even that is better than
losing you.'
Then there occurred a ludicrous incident,--or the combination of
incidents,--which, in spite of their absurdity, drove Mr Wharton
almost frantic. First there came to him the bill from Messrs
Stewam and Sugarscraps for the dinner. At this time he kept
nothing back from his daughter. 'Look at that!' he said. The
bill was absolutely made out in his name.
'It is a mistake, papa.'
'Not at all. The dinner was given in my house, and I must pay
for it. I would sooner do so than he should pay it,--even if he
had the means.' So he paid Messrs Stewam and Sugarscraps 25
pounds 9s 6d., begging them as he did so never to send another
dinner into his house, and observing that he was in the habit of
entertaining his friends at less than three guineas a head. 'But
Chateau Yquem and Cote d'Or!' said Mr Sugarscraps. 'Chateau
fiddlesticks!' said Mr Wharton, walking out of the house with his
receipt.
Then came the bill for the brougham,--for the brougham from the
very day of their return to town after their wedding trip. This
he showed to Lopez. Indeed the bill had been made out to Lopez
and sent to Mr Wharton with an apologetic note. 'I didn't tell
him to send it,' said Lopez.
'But will you pay it?'
'I certainly shall not ask you to pay it.' But Mr Wharton at
last did pay it, and he also paid the rent of the rooms in the
Belgrave Mansions, and between 30 pounds and 40 pounds for
dresses which Emily had got at Lewes and Allenby's under her
husband's orders in the first days of their married life in
London.
'Oh, papa, I wish I had not gone there,' she said.
'My dear, anything that you may have had I do not grudge in the
least. And even for him, if he would let you remain here, I
would pay willingly. I would supply all he wants if he would
only--go away.'
CHAPTER 50
MR SLIDE'S REVENGE.
'Do you mean to say, my lady, that the Duke paid his
electioneering bill down at Silverbridge?'
'I do mean to say so, Mr Slide,' Lady Eustace nodded her head,
and Mr Quintus Slide opened his mouth.
'Goodness gracious!' said Mrs Leslie, who was sitting with them.
They were in Lady Eustace's drawing-room, and the patriotic
editor of the "People's Banner" was obtaining from a new ally
information which might be useful to the country.
'But 'ow do you know, Lady Eustace? You'll pardon the
persistency of my inquiries, but when you come to public
information accuracy is everything. I never trust myself to mere
report, I always travel up to the very fountain 'ead of truth.'
'I know it,' said Lizzy Eustace oracularly.
'Um--m!' The Editor as he ejaculated the sound looked at her
ladyship with admiring eyes,--with eyes that were intended to
flatter. But Lizzie had been looked at so often in so many ways,
and was so well accustomed to admiration, that this had no effect
on her at all. 'He didn't tell you himself, did 'e now?'
'Can you tell me the truth as to trusting him with my money?'
'Yes, I can.'
'Shall I be safe if I take the papers which he calls bills of
sale?'
'One good turn deserves another, my lady.'
'I don't want to make a secret of it, Mr Slide. Pountney found
it out. You know the Major?'
'Yes, I know Major Pountney. He was at Gatherum 'imself, and got
a little bit of a cold shoulder,--didn't he?'
'I dare say he did. What has that to do with it? You may be
sure that Lopez applied to the Duke for his expenses at
Silverbridge, and that the Duke sent him the money.'
'There's no doubt about it, Mr Slide,' said Mrs Leslie. 'We got
it all from Major Pountney. There was some bet between him and
Pountney, and he had to show Pountney the cheque.'
'Pountney saw the money,' said Lady Eustace.
Mr Slide stroked his had over his mouth and chin as he sat
thinking of the tremendous national importance of this
communication. The man who had paid the money was the Prime
Minister of England,--and was, moreover, Mr Slide's enemy!
'When the right 'and of fellowship had been rejected, I never
forgive!' Mr Slide has been heard to say. Even Lady Eustace,
who was not particular as to the appearance of people, remarked
afterwards to her friend that Mr Slide looked like the devil as
he was stroking his face. 'It's very remarkable,' said Mr Slide;
'very remarkable.'
'You won't tell the Major that we told you,' said her Ladyship.
'Oh dear not. I only wanted to 'ear how it was. And as to
embarking your money, my lady, with Ferdinand Lopez,--I wouldn't
do it.'
'Not if I get the bills of sale? It's for rum, and they say rum
will go up to any price.'
'Don't Lady Eustace. I can't say any more,--but don't. I never
mention names. But don't.'
Then Mr Slide went out in search of Major Pountney, and having
found the major at his club extracted from him all that he knew
about the Silverbridge payment. Pountney had really seen the
Duke's cheque for 500 pounds. 'There was some bet,--eh, Major?'
asked Mr Slide.
'No, there wasn't. I know who had been telling you. That's
Lizzie Eustace, and just like her mischief. They way of it was
this,--Lopez, who was very angry, had boasted that he would
bring the Duke down on his marrow-bones. I was laughing at him
as we sat at dinner on day afterwards, and he took out the cheque
and showed it me. There was the Duke's own signature for 500
pounds,--"Omnium", as plain as letters could make it.' Armed
with this full information, Mr Slide felt that he had done all
that the punctilious devotion to accuracy could demand of him,
and immediately shut himself up in his cage at the "People's
Banner" office and went to work.
This occurred about the first week of January. The Duke was then
at Matching with his wife and a very small party. The singular
arrangement which had been effected by the Duchess in the early
autumn had passed off without any wonderful effects. It had been
done by her in pique, and the result had been apparently so
absurd that it had at first frightened her. But in the end it
answered very well. The Duke took great pleasure in Lady
Rosina's company, and enjoyed the apparent solitude which enabled
him to work all day without interruption. His wife protested
that it was just what she liked, though it must be feared that
she soon became weary of it. To Lady Rosina it was of course
Paradise on earth. In September, Phineas Finn and his wife came
to them, and in October there were other relaxations and other
business. The Prime Minister and his wife visited their
Sovereign, and he made some very useful speeches through the
country on his old favourite subject of decimal coinage. At
Christmas, for a fortnight, they went to Gatherum Castle and
entertained the neighbourhood,--the nobility and squirearchy
dining there on one day, and the tenants and other farmers on
another. All this went very smoothly, and the Duke did not
become outrageously unhappy because the "People's Banner" made
sundry severe remarks on the absence of Cabinet Councils through
the autumn.
After Christmas they returned to Matching, and had some of their
old friends with them. There was the Duke of St Bungay and the
Duchess, and Phineas Finn and his wife, and Lord and Lady
Cantrip, Barrington Erle, and one or two others. But at this
period there came a great trouble. One morning as the Duke sat
in his own room after breakfast he read an article in the
"People's Banner", of which the following sentences are a part.
"We wish to know by whom were paid the expenses incurred by Mr
Ferdinand Lopez during the late contest at Silverbridge. It may
be that they were paid by that gentleman himself,--in which case
we shall have nothing further to say, not caring at the present
moment to inquire whether those expenses were or were not
excessive. It may be that they were paid by subscription among
his political friends,--and if so, again we shall be satisfied.
Or it is possible that funds were supplied by a new political
club of which we have lately heard much, and with the action of
such body we of course have nothing to do. If an assurance can
be given to us by Mr Lopez or his friends that such was the case
we shall be satisfied.
"But a report has reached us, and we may say more than a report,
which makes it our duty to ask this question. Were those
expenses paid out of the private pocket of the present Prime
Minister? If so, we maintain that we have discovered a blot in
that nobleman's character which it is our duty to the public to
expose. We will go farther and say that if it be so,--if these
expenses were paid out of the private pocket of the Duke of
Omnium, it is not fit that that nobleman should any longer hold
the high office which he now fills.
"We know that a peer should not interfere in elections for the
House of Commons. We certainly know that a Minister of the Crown
should not attempt to purchase parliamentary support. We happen
to know also the almost more than public manner,--are we not
justified in saying the ostentation?--with which at the last
election the Duke repudiated all that influence with the borough
which his predecessors, and we believe he himself, had so long
exercised. He came forward telling us that he, at least, meant
to have clean hands,--that he would not do as his forefathers
had done,--that he would not even do as he himself had done in
former years. What are we to think of the Duke of Omnium as a
Minister of this country, if, after such assurances, he has out
of is own pocket paid the electioneering expenses of a candidate
at Silverbridge?" There was much more in the article, but the
passages quoted will suffice to give the reader a sufficient idea
of the accusation made, and which the Duke read in the retirement
of his own chamber.
He read it twice before he allowed himself to think of the
matter. The statement made was at any rate true to the letter.
He had paid the man's electioneering expenses. That he had done
so from the purest motives he knew and the reader knows,--but he
could even explain those motives without exposing his wife.
Since the cheque was sent he had never spoken of the occurrence
to any human being,--but he had thought of it very often. At
the time his private Secretary, with much hesitation, almost with
trepidation, had counselled him not to send the money. The Duke
was a man with whom it was very easy to work, whose courtesy to
all dependent on him was almost exaggerated, who never found
fault, and was anxious as far as possible to do everything for
himself. The comfort of those around him was always a matter of
interest to him. Everything he held, he held as it were in trust
for the enjoyment of others. But he was a man whom it was
difficult to advise. He did not like advice. He was so thin-
skinned that any counsel offered him took the form of criticism.
When cautioned what shoes he should wear,--as had been done by
Lady Rosina, or what wine or what horses he should buy, as was
done by his butler and coachman, he was thankful, taking no pride
to himself for knowledge as to shoes, wine, or horses. But as to
his own conduct, private or public, as to any question of
politics, as to his opinions and resolutions, he was jealous of
interference. Mr Warburton therefore had almost trembled when
asking the Duke whether he was quite sure about sending the money
to Lopez. 'Quite sure,' the Duke had answered, having at that
time made up his mind. Mr Warburton had not dared to express a
further doubt, and the money had been sent. But from the moment
of sending it doubts had repeated themselves in the Prime
Minister's mind.
Now he sat with the newspaper in his hand thinking of it. Of
course it was open to him to take no notice of the matter,--to
go on as though he had never seen the article, and to let the
thing die if it would die. But he knew Mr Quintus Slide and his
paper well enough to be sure that it would not die. The charge
would be repeated in the "People's Banner" till it was copied
into other papers, and then the further question would be asked,
--why had the Prime Minister allowed such an accusation to remain
unanswered? But if he did notice it, what notice should he take
of it? It was true. And surely he disobeyed no law. He had
bribed no one. He had spent his money with no corrupt purpose.
His sense of honour had taught him to think the man had received
injury through his wife's imprudence, and that he therefore was
responsible as far as the pecuniary loss was concerned. He was
not ashamed that it should be discussed in public.
Why had he allowed himself to be put into a position in which he
was subject to such grievous annoyance? Since he had held his
office he had not had a happy day, nor,--or so he told himself,--
had he received from it any slightest gratification, nor could he
buoy himself up with the idea that he was doing good service for
his country. After a while he walked into the next room and
showed the paper to Mr Warburton. 'Perhaps you were right,' he
said, 'when you told me not to send the money.'
'It will matter nothing,' said the private Secretary when he had
read it,--thinking, however, that it might matter much, but
wishing to spare the Duke.
'I was obliged to repay the man as the Duchess had,--had
encouraged him. The Duchess had not quite,--quite understood my
wishes.' Mr Warburton knew the whole history, having discussed
it all with the Duchess more than once.
'I think your Grace should take no notice of the article.'
No notice was taken of it, but three days afterwards there
appeared a short paragraph in large type,--beginning with a
question. "Does the Duke of Omnium intend to answer the question
asked by us last Friday? Is it true that paid the expenses of Mr
Lopez when that gentleman stood for Silverbridge? The Duke may
be assured that the question will be repeated till it is
answered." This the Duke also saw and took to his private
Secretary.
'I would do nothing at any rate till it be noticed in some other
paper,' said the private Secretary. 'The "People's Banner" is
known to be scandalous.'
'Of course, it is scandalous. And, moreover, I know the motives
and the malice of the wretched man who is the editor. But the
paper is read, and the foul charge if repeated will become known,
and the allegation made is true. I did pay the man's election
expenses,--and moreover to tell the truth openly as I do not
scruple to do to you, I am not prepared to state publicly the
reason why I did so. And nothing but that reason could justify
me.'
'Then I think your Grace should state it.'
'I cannot do so.'
'The Duke of St Bungay is here. Would it not be well to tell the
whole affair to him?'
'I will think of it. I do not know why I should have troubled
you.'
'Oh, my lord!'
'Except that there is always some comfort in speaking even of
one's trouble. I will think about it. In the meantime you need
perhaps not mention it again.'
'Who? I? Oh, certainly not.'
'I did not mean to others,--but to myself. I will turn it in my
mind and speak of it when I have decided anything.' And he did
think about it, thinking of it so much that he could hardly get
the matter out of mind day or night. To his wife he did not
allude to it at all. Why trouble her with it? She had caused
the evil, and he had cautioned her as to the future. She could
not help him out of the difficulty she had created. He continued
to turn the matter over in his thoughts till he so magnified it,
and built it up into such proportions, that he again began to
think that he must resign. It was, he thought, true that a man
should not remain in office as Prime Minister who in such a
matter could not clear his own conduct.
Then there was a third attack in the "People's Banner", and after
that the matter was noticed in the "Evening Pulpit". This notice
the Duke of St Bungay saw and mentioned it to Mr Warburton. 'Has
the Duke spoken to you of some allegations made in the press as
to the expenses of the late election at Silverbridge?' The old
Duke was at this time, and had been for some months, in a state
of nervous anxiety about his friend. He had almost admitted to
himself that he had been wrong in recommending a politician so
weakly organized to take the office of Prime Minister. He had
expected the man to be more manly,--had perhaps expected him to
be less conscientiously scrupulous. But now, as the thing had
been done, it must be maintained. Who else was there to take the
office? Mr Gresham would not. To keep Mr Daubney out was the
very essence of the Duke of St Bungay's life,--the turning-point
of his political creed, the one grand duty the idea of which was
always present to him. And he had, moreover, a most true and
affectionate regard for the man whom he now supported,
appreciating the sweetness of his character,--believing still in
the Minister's patriotism, intelligence, devotion, and honesty;
though he was forced to own to himself that the strength of a
man's heart was wanting.
'Yes,' said Warburton, 'he did mention it.'
'Does it trouble him?'
'Perhaps you had better speak to him about it.' Both the old
Duke and the private Secretary were as fearful and nervous about
the Prime Minister as a mother is for a weakly child. They could
hardly tell their opinions to each other, but they understood one
another, and between them they coddled the Prime Minister. They
were specially nervous as to what might be done by the Prime
Minister's wife, nervous as to what was done by everyone who came
in contact with him. It had been once suggested by the private
Secretary that Lady Rosina should be sent for, as she had a
soothing effect upon the Prime Minister's spirit.
'Has it irritated him?' asked the Duke.
'Well;--yes, it has,--a little, you know. I think your Grace
had better speak to him;--and not perhaps mention my name.' The
Duke of St Bungay nodded his head, and said he would speak to the
great man and would not mention anyone's name.
And he did speak. 'Has anyone said anything to you about it?'
asked the Prime Minister.
'I saw it in the "Evening Pulpit" myself. I have not heard it
mentioned anywhere.'
'I did pay the man's expenses.'
'You did!'
'Yes,--when the election was over, and, as far as I can
remember, some time after it was over. He wrote to me saying
that he had incurred such and such expenses, and asking me to
repay him. I sent him a cheque for the amount.
'But why?'
'I was bound in honour to do it.'
'But why?'
There was a short pause before this second question was answered.
'The man had been induced to stand by representations made to him
from my house. He had been, I fear, promised certain support
which certainly was not given him when the time came.'
'You had not promised it?'
'No;--not I.'
'Was it the Duchess?'
'Upon the whole, my friend, I think I would rather not discuss it
further, even with you. It is right that you should know that I
did pay the money,--and also why I paid it. It may also be
necessary that we should consider whether there may be any
further probable result from my doing so. But the money has been
paid, by me myself,--and was paid for the reason I have stated.'
'A question might be asked in the House.'
'If so, it must be answered as I have answered you. I certainly
shall not shirk any responsibility that may be attached to me.'
'You would not like Warburton to write a line to the newspaper?'
'What;--to the "People's Banner"!'
'It began there, did it? No, not to the "People's Banner", but
to the "Evening Pulpit". He could say, you know, that the money
was paid by you, and the payment had been made because your
agents had misapprehended your instructions.'
'It would not be true,' said the Prime Minister, slowly.
'As far as I can understand that was what occurred,' said the
other Duke.
'My instructions were not misapprehended. They were disobeyed.
I think that perhaps we had better say no more about it.'
'Do not think I wish to press you,' said the old man tenderly,
'but I fear that something ought to be done;--I mean for your
own comfort.'
'My comfort!' said the Prime Minister. 'That has vanished long
ago;--and my peace of mind, and my happiness.'
'There has been nothing done which cannot be explained with
perfect truth. There has been no impropriety.'
'I do not know.'
'The money was paid simply from an over-nice sense of honour.'
'It cannot be explained. I cannot explain it even to you; and
how then can I do it to all the gaping fools of the country who
are ready to trample upon a man simply because he is some way
conspicuous among them?'
After that the old Duke again spoke to Mr Warburton, but Mr
Warburton was very loyal to his chief. 'Could one do anything by
speaking to the Duchess?' said the old Duke.
'I think not.'
'I suppose it was her Grace who did it all?'
'I cannot say. My own impression is that he had better wait till
the Houses meet, and then, if any question is asked, let it be
answered. He himself would do it in the House of Lords, or Mr
Finn or Barrington Erle, in our House. It would be surely enough
to explain that his Grace had been made to believe that the man
had received encouragement at Silverbridge from his own agents,
which he himself had not intended should be given, and that
therefore he had thought it right to pay the money. After such
an explanation what more could anyone say?'
'You might do it yourself.'
'I never speak.'
'But in such a case as that you might do so; and then there would
be no necessity for him to talk to another person on the matter.'
So the affair was left for the present, though the allusions to
it in the "People's Banner" were still continued. Nor did any
other of the Prime Minister's colleagues dare to speak to him on
the subject. Barrington Erle and Phineas Finn talked of it among
themselves, but they did not mention it even to the Duchess. She
would have gone to her husband at once, and they were too careful
of him to risk such a proceeding. It certainly was the case that
among them they coddled the Prime Minister.
CHAPTER 51
CODDLING THE PRIME MINISTER.
Parliament was to meet on the 12th of February, and it was of
course necessary that there should be a Cabinet Council before
that time. The Prime Minister, about the end of the third week
in January, was prepared to name a day for this, and did so, most
unwillingly. But he was then ill, and talked both to his friend
the old Duke, and his private Secretary of having the meeting
held without him. 'Impossible,' said the old Duke.
'If I could not go it would have to be possible.'
'We could all come here if it were necessary.'
'Bring fourteen or fifteen ministers out to town because a poor
creature such as I am is ill!' But in truth the Duke of St
Bungay hardly believed in this illness. The Prime Minister was
unhappy rather than ill.
By this time everyone in the House,--and almost everybody in the
country who read the newspapers,--had heard of Mr Lopez and his
election expenses,--except the Duchess. No one had yet dared to
tell her. She saw the newspapers daily, but probably did not
read them very attentively. Nevertheless she knew that something
was wrong. Mr Warburton hovered about the Prime Minister more
tenderly than usual; the Duke of St Bungay was more concerned;
the world around her was more mysterious, and her husband more
wretched. 'What is it that's going on?' she said one day to
Phineas Finn.
'Everything,--in the same dull way as usual.'
'If you don't tell me, I'll never speak to you again. I know
there is something wrong.'
'The Duke, I'm afraid, is not quite well.'
'What makes him ill? I know well when he's ill, and when he's
well. He's troubled by something.'
'I think he is, Duchess. But as he has not spoken to me I am
loath to make guesses. If there be anything I can only guess at
it.'
Then she questioned Mrs Finn, and got an answer, which, if not
satisfactory, was at any rate explanatory. 'I think he is uneasy
about that Silverbridge affair.'
'What Silverbridge affair?'
'You know that he paid the expenses which that man Lopez says
that he incurred.'
'Yes;--I know that.'
'And you know that that other man Slide has found it out, and
published it all in the "People's Banner".'
'No!'
'Yes, indeed. And a whole army of accusations has been brought
against him. I have never liked to tell you, and yet I do not
think that you should be left in the dark.'
'Everybody deceives me,' said the Duchess angrily.
'Nay;--there has been no deceit.'
'Everybody keeps things from me. I think you will kill me among
you. It was my doing. Why do they attack him? I will write to
the papers. I encouraged the man after Plantagenet had
determined that he should not be assisted,--and, because I had
done so, he paid the man his beggarly money. What is there to
hurt him in that? Let me bear it. My back is broad enough.'
'The Duke is very sensitive.'
'I hate people to be sensitive. It makes them cowards. A man
when he is afraid of being blamed, dares not at last even show
himself, and has to be wrapped in lamb's wool.'
'Of course men are differently organized.'
'Yes;--but the worst of it is, that when they suffer from this
weakness, which you call sensitiveness, they think that they are
made of finer material than other people. Men shouldn't be made
of Sevres china, but of good stone earthenware. However, I don't
want to abuse him, poor fellow.'
'I don't think you ought.'
'I know what that means. You do not want to abuse me. So
they've been bullying him about the money he paid to that man
Lopez. How did anybody know anything about it?'
'Lopez must have told of it,' said Mrs Finn.
'The worst, my dear, of trying to know a great many people is,
that you are sure to get hold of some that are very bad. Now
that man is very bad. Yet they say he has married a nice wife.'
'That's often the case, Duchess.'
'And the contrary;--isn't it, my dear? But I shall have it out
with Plantagenet. I have to write letters to all the newspapers
myself, I'll put it right.' She certainly coddled her husband
less than the others, and, indeed in her hearts of hearts
disapproved altogether of the coddling system. But she was wont
at this particular time to be somewhat tender to him because she
was aware that she herself had been imprudent. Since he had
discovered her interference at Silverbridge, and had made her
understand its pernicious results, she had been,--not, perhaps,
shamefaced, for that word describes a condition to which hardly
any series of misfortunes could have reduced the Duchess of
Omnium,--but inclined to quiescence by feelings of penitence.
She was less disposed than heretofore to attack him with what the
world of yesterday calls 'chaff', or with what the world of to-
day calls 'cheek'. She would not admit to herself that she was
cowed;--but the greatness of the game and the high interest
attached to her husband's position did in some degree dismay her.
Nevertheless she executed her purpose of 'having it out with
Plantagenet,' 'I have just heard,' she said, having knocked at
the door of his own room, and having found him alone,--'I have
just hear, for the first time, that there is a row about the
money you paid to Mr Lopez.'
'Who told you?'
'Nobody told me,--in the usual sense of the word. I presumed
that something was the matter, and then I got it from Marie. Why
had you not told me?'
'Why should I tell you?'
'But why not? If anything troubled me, I should tell you. That
is, if it troubled me much.'
'You take it for granted that this does trouble me much.' He was
smiling as he said this, but the smile passed very quickly from
his face. 'I will not, however, deceive you. It does trouble
me.'
'I knew very well that something was wrong.'
'I have not complained.'
'One can see as much as that without words. What is it that you
fear? What can the man do to you? What matter is it to you if
such a one as that pours out his malice on you? Let it run off
like the rain from the housetops. You are too big even to be
stung by such a reptile as that.' He looked into her face,
admiring the energy with which she spoke to him. 'As for
answering him,' she continued to say, 'that may or may not be
proper. If it should be done, there are people to do it. But I
am speaking of your own inner self. You have a shield against
your equals, and a sword to attack them with if necessary. Have
you no armour of proof against such a creature as that? Have you
nothing inside you to make you feel that he is too contemptible
to be regarded?'
'Nothing.'
'Oh, Plantagenet!'
'Cora, there a different natures which have each their own
excellencies, and their own defects. I will not admit that I am
a coward, believing as I do that I could dare to face necessary
danger. But I cannot endure to have my character impugned,--
even by Mr Lopez.'
'What matter,--if you are in the right? Why blench if your
conscience accuses you of no fault? I would not blench if it
did. What,--is a man to be put in the front of everything, and
then to be judged as though he could give all his time to the
picking of his steps?'
'Just so! And he must pick them more warily than another.'
'I do not believe it. You see all this with jaundiced eyes. I
read somewhere the other day that the great ships have always
little worms attached to them, but that the great ships swim on
and know nothing of the worms.'
'The worms conquer at last.'
'They shouldn't conquer me! After all, what is it that they say
about the money? That you ought not to have had it?'
'I begin to think I was wrong to pay it.'
'You certainly were not wrong. I had led the man on. I had been
mistaken. I had thought he was a gentleman. Having led him on
at first, before you had spoken to me, I did not like to go back
from my word. I did go to the man at Silverbridge who sells the
pots, and no doubt the man, when thus encouraged, told it all to
Lopez. When Lopez went to the town he did suppose that he would
have what the people call the Castle interest.'
'And I had done so much to prevent it.'
'What's the use of going back on that now, unless you want me to
put my neck down to be trodden on? I am confessing my own sins
as fast as I can.'
'God knows I would not have trodden on you.'
'I am willing,--if it be necessary. Then came the question;--
as I had done this evil, how was it to be rectified? Any man
with a particle of spirit would have taken his rubs and said
nothing about it. But as this man asked for the money, it was
right that he should have it. If it is all made public he won't
get very well out of it.'
'What does that matter to me?'
'Nor shall I;--only luckily I do not mind it.'
'But I mind it for you.'
'You must throw me to the whale. Let somebody say in so many
words that the Duchess did so and so. It was very wicked no
doubt; but they can't kill me,--nor yet dismiss me. And I won't
resign. In point of fact I shan't be a penny the worse for it.'
'But I should resign.'
'If all the Ministers of England were to give up as soon as their
wives do foolish things, that question about Queen's Government
would become very difficult.'
'They may do foolish things, dear; and yet--'
'And yet what?'
'And yet not interfere in politics.'
'That's all you know about it, Plantagenet. Doesn't everybody
know that Mrs Daubney got Dr MacFuzlem made a bishop, and that
Mrs Gresham got her husband to make that hazy speech about
women's rights, so that nobody should know which way he meant to
go? There are others just as bad as me, only I don't think they
got blown up so much. You do now as I ask you.'
'I couldn't do it, Cora. Though the stain were but a little
spot, and the thing to be avoided political destruction, I could
not ride out of the punishment by fixing that stain upon my wife.
I will not have your name mentioned. A man's wife should be
talked about by no one.'
'That's highfaluting, Plantagenet.'
'Glencora, in these matters you must allow me to judge for
myself, and I will judge. I will never say that I didn't do it;
--but that it was my wife who did.'
'Adam said so,--because he chose to tell the truth.'
'And Adam has been despised ever since,--not because he ate the
apple, but because he imputed the eating of it to a woman. I
will not do it. We have had enough of this now.' Then she
turned to go away;--but he called her back. 'Kiss me, dear,' he
said. Then she stooped over him and kissed him. 'Do not think I
am angry with you because the thing vexes me. I am dreaming
always of some day when we may go away together with the
children, and rest in some pretty spot, and live as other people
live.'
'It would be very stupid,' she muttered to herself as she left
the room.
He did to up to town for the Cabinet meeting. Whatever may have
been done at that august assembly there was certainly no
resignation, or the world would have heard it. It is probable,
too, that nothing was said about these newspaper articles.
Things if left to themselves will generally die at last. The old
Duke and Phineas Finn and Barrington Erle were all of the opinion
that the best plan for the present was to do nothing. 'Has
anything been settled?' The Duchess asked Phineas when he came
back.
'Oh yes;--the Queen's Speech. But there isn't very much in it.'
'But about the payment of this money?'
'I haven't heard a word about it,' said Phineas.
'You're just as bad as all the rest, Mr Finn, with your pretended
secrecy. A girl with her sweetheart isn't half so fussy as a
young Cabinet Minister.'
'The Cabinet Ministers get used to it sooner, I think,' said
Phineas Finn.
Parliament had already met before Mr Slide had quite determined
in what way he would carry on the war. He could indeed go on
writing pernicious articles about the Prime Minister ad
infinitum,--from year's end to year's end. It was an occupation
in which he took delight, and for which he imagined himself to be
peculiarly well suited. But readers will become tired even of
abuse if it be not varied. And the very continuance of such
attacks would seem to imply that they were not much heeded.
Other papers had indeed taken the matter up,--but they had taken
it up only to drop it. The subject had not been their own. The
little discovery had been due not to their acumen, and did not
therefore bear with them the highest interest. It had almost
seemed as though nothing would come of it,--for Mr Slide in his
wildest ambition could have hardly imagined the vexation and
hesitation, the nervousness and serious discussion which his
words had occasioned among the great people at Matching. But
certainly the thing must not be allowed to pass away as a matter
of no moment. Mr Slide had almost worked his mind up to real
horror as he thought of it. What! A prime minister, a peer, a
great duke,--put a man forward as a candidate for a borough,
and, when the man was beaten, pay his expenses! Was this to be
done,--to be done, and found out and nothing come of it in these
days of purity, when a private member of Parliament, some mere
nobody loses his seat because he has given away a few bushels of
coals or a score or two of rabbits! Mr Slide's energetic love of
public virtue was scandalized as he thought of the probability of
such a catastrophe. To his thinking public virtue consisted in
carping at men high placed, in abusing ministers and judges and
bishops,--and especially in finding out something for which they
might be abused. His own public virtue was in this matter very
great, for it was he who had ferreted out the secret. For his
intelligence and energy in that matter the country owed him much.
But the country would pay him nothing, would give him none of the
credit he desired, would rob him of this special opportunity of
declaring a dozen times that the "People's Banner" was the surest
guardian of the people's liberty,--unless he could succeed in
forcing the matter further into public notice. 'How terrible is
the apathy of the people at large,' said Mr Slide to himself,
'when they cannot be awakened by such a revelation as this!'
Mr Slide knew very well what ought to be the next step. Proper
notice should be given and a question should be asked in
Parliament. Some gentleman should declare that he had noticed
such and such statements in the public press, and that he thought
it right to ask whether such and such payments had been made by
the Prime Minister. In his meditations Mr Slide went to so far as
to arrange the very words which the indignant gentleman should
utter, among which words was a graceful allusion to a certain
public-spirited newspaper. He did even go so far as to arrange a
compliment to the editor,--but in doing so he knew that he was
thinking only of that which ought to be, and not of that which
would be. The time had not come as yet in which the editor of a
newspaper in this country received a tithe of the honour due to
him. But the question in any form, with or without a compliment
to the "People's Banner", would be the thing that was now
desirable.
Who was to ask the question? If public spirit were really strong
in the country there would be not difficulty on that point. The
crime committed had been so horrible that all the great
politicians of the country ought to compete for the honour of
asking it. What greater service can be trusted to the hands of a
great man than that of exposing the sins of the rulers of the
nation? So thought Mr Slide. But he knew that he was in advance
of the people, and that the matter would not be seen in the
proper light by those who ought to see it. There might be a
difficulty in getting any peer to ask the question on the House
in which the Prime Minister himself sat, and even in the other
House there was now but little of that acrid, indignant
opposition upon which, in Mr Slide's opinion, the safety of the
nation altogether depends.
When the statement was first made in the "People's Banner", Lopez
had come to Mr Slide at once and had demanded his authority for
making it. Lopez had found the statement to be most injurious to
himself. He had been paid his election expenses twice over,
making a clear profit of 500 pounds by the transaction, and,
thought the matter had at once time troubled his conscience, he
had already taught himself to regard it as one of those bygones
to which a wise man seldom refers. But now Mr Wharton would know
that he had been cheated, should the statement reach him. 'Who
gave you authority to publish all this?' asked Lopez, who at this
time had become intimate with Mr Slide.
'Is it true, Lopez?' asked the editor.
'Whatever was done was done in private,--between me and the
Duke.'
'Dukes, my dear fellow, can't be private, and certainly not when
they are Prime Ministers.'
'But you've no right to publish these things about me.'
'Is it true? If it's true, I have got every right to publish it.
If it's not true, I've got the right to ask the question. If you
will 'ave to do with Prime Ministers you can't 'ide yourself
under a bushel. Tell me this;--is it true? You might as well
go 'and in 'and with me in the matter. You can't hurt yourself.
And if you oppose me,--why I shall oppose you.'
'You can't say anything of me.'
'Well;--I don't know about that. I can generally 'it pretty
'ard if I feel inclined. But I don't want to 'it you. As
regards you I can tell the story one way,--or the other, just as
you please.' Lopez, seeing it in a manner not inimical to
himself. The present project of his life was to leave his
troubles in England,--Sexty Parker being the worst of them,--
and get away to Guatemala. In arranging this the good word of Mr
Slide might not benefit him, but his ill word might injure him.
And then let him do what he would, the matter must be made
public. Should Mr Wharton hear of it,--as of course he would,--
it must be brazened out. He could not keep it from Mr Wharton's
ears by quarrelling with Quintus Slide.
'It was true,' said Lopez.
'I knew it before just as well as though I had seen it. I ain't
often very wrong in these things. You asked him for the money,--
and threatened him.'
'I don't know about threatening him.'
''E wouldn't have sent it else.'
'I told him that I had been deceived by his people in the
borough, and that I had been put to expense through the
misrepresentations of the Duchess. I don't think I did ask for
the money. But he sent a cheque, and of course I took it.'
Of course;--of course. You couldn't give me a copy of the
letter?'
'Never kept a copy.' He had a copy in his breast coat-pocket at
that moment and Slide did not for a moment believe the statement
made. But in such discussions one man hardly expects truth from
another. Mr Slide certainly never expected truth from any man.
'He sent the cheque almost without a word,' said Lopez.
'He did write a note, I suppose?'
'Just a few words.'
'Could you let me 'ave that note?'
'I destroyed it at once.' This also was in his breast pocket at
the time.
'Did 'e write it 'imself?'
'I think it was his private Secretary, Mr Warburton.'
'You must be sure, you know. Which was it?'
'It was Mr Warburton.'
'Was it civil?'
'Yes, it was. If it had been uncivil I should have sent it back.
I'm not the man to take impudence even from a duke.'
'If you'll give me those two letters, Lopez, I'll stick to you
through thick and thin. By heavens I will! Think what the
"People's Banner" is. You may come to want that kind of thing
some of these days.' Lopez remained silent, looking into the
other man's eager face. 'I shouldn't publish them, you know; but
it would be so much to me to have the evidence in my hands. You
might do worse, you know, than make a friend of me.'
'You won't publish them?'
'Certainly not. I shall only refer to them.'
Then Lopez pulled a bundle of papers out of his pocket. 'There
they are,' he said.
'Well,' said Slide, when he had read them, 'it is one of the
rummiest transactions I ever 'eard of. Why did 'e send the
money? That's what I want to know. As far as the claim goes,
you 'adn't a leg to stand on.'
'Not legally.'
'You 'adn't a leg to stand on any way. But that doesn't much
matter. He sent the money, and the sending of the money was
corrupt. Who shall I get to ask the question. I suppose young
Arthur Fletcher wouldn't do it.'
'They're birds of a feather,' said Lopez.
'Birds of a feather do fall out sometimes. Or Sir Orlando
Drought? I wonder whether Sir Orlando Drought would do it. If
any man 'ated another, Sir Orlando Drought must 'ate the Duke of
Omnium.'
'I don't think he would let himself down to that kind of thing.'
'Let 'imself down! I don't see any letting down in it. But
those men who have been in cabinets do stick to one another even
when they are enemies. They think themselves so mighty that they
oughtn't to be 'andled like other men. But I'll let them know
that I'll 'andle them. A Cabinet Minister or a cowboy is the
same to Quintus Slide when he has got his pen in 'is hand.'
On the next morning there came out another article in the
"People's Banner", in which the writer declared that he had in
his own possession the damnatory correspondence between the Prime
Minister and the late candidate at Silverbridge. 'The Prime
Minister may deny the fact,' said the article. 'We do not think
it probable, but it is possible. We wish to be fair and
aboveboard in everything. And therefore we at once inform the
noble Duke that the entire correspondence is in our hands.' In
saying this Mr Quintus Slide thought that he had quite kept the
promise which he made when said that he would only refer to the
letters.
CHAPTER 52
'I CAN SLEEP HERE TO-NIGHT, I SUPPOSE?'
That scheme of going to Guatemala had been in the first instance
propounded by Lopez with the object of frightening Mr Wharton
into terms. There had, indeed, been some previous thoughts on
the subject,--some plan projected before his marriage, but it
had been resuscitated mainly in the hope that it might be
efficacious to extract money. When by degrees the son-in-law
began to feel that even this would not be operative on his
father-in-law's purse,--when under this threat neither Wharton
nor Emily gave way,--and when, with the view of strengthening
his threat, he renewed his inquires as to Guatemala and found
that there might still an opening for him in that direction,--
the threat took the shape of a true purpose, and he began to
think that he would in real earnest try his fortunes in a new
world. From day to day things did not go well with him, and from
day to day Sexty Parker became more unendurable. It was
impossible for him to keep from his partner this plan of
emigration,--but he endeavoured to make Parker believe that the
thing, if done at all, was not to be done till all his affairs
were settled,--or in other words all his embarrassments cleared
by downright money payments, and that Mr Wharton was to make
these payments on the condition that he thus expatriated himself.
But Mr Wharton had made no such promise. Though the threatened
day came nearer and nearer he could not bring himself to purchase
a short respite for his daughter by paying money to a scoundrel,
--which payment he felt sure would be of no permanent service.
During all this time Mr Wharton was very wretched. If he could
have freed his daughter from her marriage by half his fortune he
would have done it without a second thought. If he could have
assuredly purchased the permanent absence of her husband, he
would have done it at a large price. But let him pay what he
would, he could see his way to no security. From day to day he
became more strongly convinced of the rascality of this man who
was his son-in-law, and who was still an inmate in his own house.
Of course he had accusations enough to make within his own breast
against his daughter, who, when the choice was open to her, would
not take the altogether fitting husband provided for her, but had
declared herself to be broken-hearted for ever since she were
allowed to throw herself away upon this wretched creature. But
he blamed himself as much as he did her. Why had he allowed
himself to be so enervated by her prayers at last as to surrender
everything,--as he had done? How could he presume to think that
he should be allowed to escape, when he had done so little to
prevent the misery?
He spoke to Emily about it,--not often, indeed, but with great
earnestness. 'I have done it myself,' she said, 'and I will bear
it.'
'Tell him you cannot go till you know to what home you are
going.'
'That is for him to consider. I have begged him to let me
remain, and I can say no more. If he chooses to take me, I shall
go.'
Then he spoke to her about money. 'Of course I have money,' he
said. 'Of course I have enough both for you and Everett. If I
could do any good by giving it to him, he should have it.'
'Papa,' she answered, 'I will never again ask you to give him a
single penny. That must be altogether between you and him. He
is what they call a speculator. Money is not safe with him.'
'I shall have to send it to you when you are in want.'
'When I am--dead there will be no more to be sent. Do not look
like that, papa. I know what I have done, and I must bear it. I
have thrown away my life, it is just that. If baby had lived it
would have been different.' This was about the end of January,
and then Mr Wharton heard of the great attack made by Mr Quintus
Slide against the Prime Minister, and heard, of course, of the
payment alleged to have been made to Ferdinand Lopez by the Duke
on the score of the election at Silverbridge. Some persons spoke
to him on the subject. One or two friends at the club asked him
what he supposed to be the truth in the matter, and Mrs Roby
inquired of him on the subject. 'I have asked Lopez,' she said,
'and I am sure from his manner that he did get the money.'
'I don't know anything about it,' said Mr Wharton.
'If he did get it I think he was very clever.' It was well known
at this time to Mrs Roby that the Lopez marriage had been a
failure, that Lopez was not a rich man, and that Emily, as well
as her father, was discontented and unhappy. She had latterly
heard of the Guatemala scheme, and had of course expressed her
horror. But she sympathized with Lopez rather than with his
wife, thinking that if Mr Wharton would only open his pockets
wide enough things might still be right. 'It was all the
Duchess's fault, you know,' she said to the old man.
'I know nothing about it, and when I want to know I certainly
shall not come to you. The misery that he has brought upon me is
so great that it makes me wish I had never seen anyone who knew
him.'
'It was Everett who introduced him to your house.'
It was you who introduced him to Everett.'
'There you are wrong,--as you often are, Mr Wharton. Everett
met him first at the club.'
'What's the use of arguing about it? It was at your house that
Emily met him. It was you that did it. I wonder you can have
the face to mention his name to me.'
'And the man living all the time in your house!'
Up to this time Mr Wharton had not mentioned to a single person
the fact that he had paid his son-in-law's election expenses at
Silverbridge. He had given him the cheque without much
consideration, with the feeling that by doing so he would in some
degree benefit his daughter, and had since regretted the act,
finding that no such payment from him could be of any service to
Emily. But the thing had been done,--and there had been, so
far, an end of it. In no subsequent discussion would Mr Wharton
have alluded to it, had not circumstances now as it were driven
it back upon his mind. And since the day on which he had paid
the money he had been, as he declared to himself, swindled over
and over again by his son-in-law. There was the dinner at
Manchester Square, and after that the brougham, and the rent, and
a score of bills, some of which he had paid and some declined to
pay! And yet he had said but little to the man himself of all
these injuries. Of what use was it to say anything? Lopez would
simply reply that he had asked him to pay nothing. 'What is it
all,' Lopez had once said, 'to the fortune I had a right to
expect with your daughter?' 'You had no right to expect a
shilling,' Wharton had said. Then Lopez had shrugged his
shoulders, and there had been an end of it.
But now, if this rumour were true, there had been a positive
dishonesty. From whichever source the man might have got the
money first, if the money had been twice got, the second payment
had been fraudulently obtained. Surely if the accusation had
been untrue Lopez would have come to him and declared it to be
false, knowing what must otherwise be his thoughts. Lately, in
the daily worry of his life, he had avoided all conversation with
the man. He would not allow his mind to contemplate clearly what
was coming. He entertained some irrational, undefined hope that
something would at last save his daughter from the threatened
banishment. It might be, if he held his own hand tight enough,
that there would not be money enough even to pay for her passage
out. As for her outfit, Lopez would of course order what he
wanted and have the bills sent to Manchester Square. Whether or
not this was being done neither he nor Emily knew. And thus
matters went on without much speech between the two men. But now
the old barrister thought that he was bound to speak. He
therefore waited on a certain morning till Lopez had come down,
having previously desired his daughter to leave the room.
'Lopez,' he asked, 'what is this that the newspapers are saying
about your expenses at Silverbridge?'
Lopez had expected the attack and had endeavoured to prepare
himself for it. 'I should have thought, sir, that you would not
have paid much attention to such statements in a newspaper.'
'When they concern myself, I do. I paid your electioneering
expenses.
'You certainly subscribed 500 pounds towards them, Mr Wharton.'
'I subscribed nothing, sir. There was no question of a
subscription,--by which you intend to imply contribution from
other sources. You told me that the contest cost you 500 pounds
and that sum I handed to you, with the full understanding on your
part, as well as on mine, that I was paying for the whole. Was
that so?'
'Have it your own way, sir.'
'If you are not more precise, I shall think that you have
defrauded me.'
'Defrauded you?'
'Yes, sir;--defrauded me to the Duke of Omnium. The money is
gone, and it matters little which. But if that be so I shall
know that either from him or from me you have raised money under
false pretences.'
'Of course, Mr Wharton, from you I must bear whatever you may
choose to say.'
'Is it true that you have applied to the Duke of Omnium for money
on account of your expenses at Silverbridge, and is it true that
he has paid you on that score?'
'Mr Wharton, as I have said just now, I am bound to hear and to
bear from anything you may choose to say. Your connection with
my wife and your age alike restrain my resentment. But I am not
bound to answer your questions when they are accompanied by such
language as you have chosen to use, and I refuse to answer
further questions on this subject.'
'Of course I know that you have taken the money from the Duke.'
'Then why do you ask me?'
'And of course I know you are well aware as I am of the nature of
the transaction. That you can brazen it out without a blush only
proves to me that you have got beyond the reach of shame.'
'Very well, sir.'
'And you have no further explanation to make?'
'What do you expect me to say? Without knowing any of the facts
of the case,--except the one, that you contributed 500 pounds to
my election expenses, you take upon yourself to tell me that I am
a shameless, fraudulent swindler. And then you ask for a further
explanation! In such a position is it likely that I shall
explain anything;--that I can be in a humour to be explanatory?
Just turn it all over in your own mind, and ask yourself the
question.'
'I have turned it over in my mind, and I have asked myself the
question, and I do not think it probable that you should wish to
explain anything. I shall take steps to let the Duke know that I
as your father-in-law had paid the full sum which you had stated
that you had spent at Silverbridge.'
'Much the Duke will care about that.'
'And after what has passed I am obliged to say that the sooner
you leave this house the better I shall be pleased.'
'Very well, sir. Of course I shall take my wife with me.'
'That must be as she pleases.'
'No, Mr Wharton. That must be as I please. She belongs to me,--
not to you or to herself. Under your influence she has forgotten
much of what belongs to the duty of a wife, but I do not think
that she will so far have forgotten herself as to give me more
trouble than to bid her come with me when I desire it.'
'Let that be as it may. I must request that you, sir, will
absent yourself. I will not entertain as my guest a man who has
acted as you have done in this matter,--even though he be my
son-in-law.'
'I can sleep here tonight, I suppose?'
'Or to-morrow if it suits you. As for Emily, she can remain
here, if you will allow her to do so.'
'That will not suit me,' said Lopez.
'In that case, as far as I am concerned, I shall do whatever she
may ask me to do. Good morning.'
Mr Wharton left the room, but did not leave the house. Before he
did so he would see his daughter, and, thinking it probable that
Lopez would also choose to see his wife, he prepared to wait in
his own room. But, in about ten minutes, Lopez started from the
hall door in a cab, and did so without going upstairs. Mr
Wharton had reason to believe that his son-in-law was almost
destitute of money for immediate purposes. Whatever he might
have would at any rate be serviceable for him before he started.
Any home for Emily must be expensive; and no home in their
present circumstances could be so reputable for her as one under
her father's roof. He therefore almost hoped that she might
still be left with him till that horrid day should come,--if it
ever did come,--in which she would be taken away from him for
ever. 'Of course, papa, I shall go if he bids me,' she said,
when he told her all that he thought it right to tell her of that
morning's interview.
'I hardly know how to advise you,' said the father, meaning in
truth to bring himself round to the giving of some advice adverse
to her husband's will.
'I want no advice, papa.'
'Want no advice! I never knew a woman who wanted it more.'
'No, papa. I am bound to do as he tells me. I know what I have
done. When some poor wretch has got himself into perpetual
prison by his misdeeds, no advice can serve him. So it is with
me.'
'You can at any rate escape from your prison.'
'No;--no. I have a feeling of pride which tells me that as I
chose to become the wife of my husband,--so I insisted on it in
opposition to all my friends,--as I would judge for myself,--I
am bound to put up with my choice. If this had come upon me
through the authority of others, if I had been constrained to
marry him, I think I could have reconciled myself to deserting
him. But I did it myself, and I will abide by it. When he bids
me to go, I shall go.' Poor Mr Wharton went to his chambers, and
sat there the whole day without taking a book or a paper into his
hands. Could there be no rescue, no protection, no relief? He
turned over in his head various plans, but in a vague and useless
manner. What if the Duke were to prosecute Lopez for the fraud!
What if he could implore Lopez to abandon his wife,--pledging
himself by some deed not to return to her,--for, say, twenty or
even thirty thousand pounds! What if he himself were carry his
daughter away to the continent, half forcing and half persuading
her to make the journey! Surely there might be some means found
by which the man might be frightened into compliance. But there
he sat,--and did nothing. And in the evening he ate a solitary
mutton chop at The Jolly Blackbird, because he could not bear to
face even his club, and then returned to his chambers,--to the
great disgust of the old woman who had them in charge at nights.
And at about midnight he crept away to his own house, a wretched
old man.
Lopez when he left Manchester Square he did not go in search of a
new home for himself and his wife, nor during the whole of the
day did he trouble himself on that subject. He spent most of the
day at the rooms in Coleman Street of the San Juan Mining
Association, of which Mr Mills Happerton had once been Chairman.
There was now another Chairman and other Directors; but Mr Mills
Happerton's influence had so far remained with the Company as to
enable Lopez to become well-known in the Company's offices, and
acknowledged as a claimant for the office of resident Manager at
San Juan in Guatemala. Now the present project was this,--that
Lopez was to start on behalf of the Company early in May, that
the Company was to pay his own personal expenses out to
Guatemala, and that they should allow him while there a salary of
1,000 pounds a year for managing the affairs of the mine. As far
as this offer went, the thing was true enough. It was true that
Lopez had absolutely secured the place. But he done so subject
to the burden of one very serious stipulation. He was to become
the proprietor of fifty shares in the mine, and to pay up 100
pounds each on those shares. It was considered that the man who
was to get 1,000 pounds a year in Guatemala for managing the
affair, should at any rate assist the affair, and show his
confidence in the affair, to an extent as great as that. Of
course the holder of these fifty shares would be fully entitled
as any other shareholder to that twenty per cent which those
shares who promoted the mine promised as the immediate result of
the speculation.
At first Lopez had hoped that he might be enabled to defer the
actual payment of the 5,000 pounds till after he had sailed.
When once out in Guatemala as manager, as manager he would
doubtless remain. But by degrees he found that the payment must
actually be made in advance. Now there was nobody to whom he
could apply but Mr Wharton. He was, indeed, forced to declare at
the office that the money was to come from Mr Wharton, and had
given some excellent but fictitious reason why Mr Wharton could
not pay the money till February.
And in spite of all that had come and gone he still did hope that
if the need to go were actually there he might even get the money
from Mr Wharton. Surely Mr Wharton would sooner pay such a sum
than be troubled at home with such a son-in-law. Should the
worst come to the worst, of course he could raise the money by
consenting to leave his wife at home. But this was not part of
his plan, if he could avoid it. 5,000 pounds would be a very low
price at which to sell his wife, and all that he might get from
his connection with her. As long as he kept her with him he was
in possession at any rate of all that Mr Wharton would do for
her. He had not therefore as yet made up his final application
to his father-in-law for the money, having found it possible to
postpone they payment till the middle of February. His quarrel
with Mr Wharton this morning he regarded as having little or no
effect upon his circumstances. Mr Wharton would not give him the
money because he loved him, nor yet from personal respect, nor
from any sense of duty as to what he might owe a son-in-law. It
would simply be given as the price by which his absence might be
purchased, and his absence would not be the less desirable
because of this morning's quarrel.
But, even yet, he was not quite resolved as to going to
Guatemala. Sexty Parker had been sucked nearly dry, and was in
truth at this moment so violent with indignation and fear and
remorse that Lopez did not dare to show himself in Little Tankard
Yard; but still there were, even yet, certain hopes in that
direction from which greater results might come. If a certain
new spirit which had just been concocted from the bark of trees
in Central Africa, and which was called Bios, could only be made
to go up in the market, everything might be satisfactorily
arranged. The hoardings of London were already telling the
public if it wished to get drunk without any of the usual
troubles of intoxication it must drink Bios. The public no
doubt does read the literature of the hoardings, but then it
reads so slowly! This Bios had hardly been twelve months on the
boards as yet! But they were now increasing the size of the
letters in the advertisements and the jocundity of the pictures,
--and the thing might be done. There was, too, another hope,--
another hope of instant moneys by which Guatemala might be staved
off, as to which further explanation shall be given in a further
chapter.
'I suppose I shall find Dixon a decent sort of fellow?' said
Lopez to the Secretary of the Association in Coleman Street.
'Rough, you know,'
'But honest?'
'Oh yes,--he's all that.'
'If he's honest, and what I call loyal, I don't care a straw for
anything else. One doesn't expect West-end manners in Guatemala.
But I shall have a deal to do with him,--and I hate a fellow
that you can't depend on.'
'Mr Happerton used to think a great deal of Dixon.'
'That's all right,' said Lopez. Mr Dixon was the underground
manager out at the San Juan mine, and was perhaps as anxious for
a loyal and honest colleague as was Mr Lopez. If so, Mr Dixon
was very much in the way to be disappointed.
Lopez stayed at the office all the day studying the affairs of
the San Juan mine, and then went to the Progress for dinner.
Hitherto he had taken no steps whatever as to getting lodgings
for himself or his wife.
CHAPTER 53
MR HARTLEPOD.
When the time came at which Lopez should have left Manchester
Square he was still there. Mr Wharton, in discussing the matter
with his daughter,--when wishing to persuade her that she might
remain in his house even in opposition to her husband,--had not
told her that he had actually desired Lopez to leave it. He had
then felt sure that the man would go and take his wife with him,
but he did not even yet know the obduracy and cleverness and the
impregnability of his son-in-law. When the time came, when he
saw his daughter in the morning after the notice had been given,
he could not bring himself even then to say to her that he had
issued an order for his banishment. Days went by and Lopez was
still there, and the old barrister had no further word on the
subject. The two men never met;--or met simply in the hall or
passages. Wharton himself studiously avoided such meetings, thus
denying himself the commonest uses of his own house. At last
Emily told him that her husband had fixed the day for her
departure. The next Indian mail-packet by which they would leave
England would start from Southampton on the 2nd of April, and she
was to be ready to go on that day. 'How is it to be till then?'
the father asked in a low, uncertain voice.
'I suppose I may remain with you.'
'And your husband?'
'He will be here, too,--I suppose.'
'Such a misery,--such a destruction of everything no man ever
heard of before!' said Mr Wharton. To this she made no reply,
but continued working at some necessary preparation for her
final departure. 'Emily,' he said. 'I will make any sacrifice
to prevent it. What can be done? Short of injuring Everett's
interests, I will do anything.'
'I do not know,' she said.
'You must understand something of his affairs.'
'Nothing whatever. He has told me nothing of them. In earlier
days,--soon after our marriage,--he bade me get money from
you.'
'When you wrote to me for money from Italy?'
'And after that. I have refused to do anything,--to say a word.
I told him that it must be between you and him. What else could
I say? And now he tells me nothing.'
'I cannot think that he wants you to go with him.' Then there
was again a pause. 'Is it because he loves you?'
'Not that, papa.'
'Why then should he burden himself with a companion? His money,
whatever he has, would go further without such impediment.'
'Perhaps he thinks, papa, that while I am with him he has a hold
upon you.'
'He shall have a stronger hold by leaving you. What is he to
gain? If I could only know his price.'
'Ask him, papa.'
'I do not know how I am to speak to him again.'
Then again there was a pause. 'Papa,' she said after a while, 'I
have done it myself. Let me go. You will still have Everett.
And it may be that after a time I shall come back to you. He
will not kill me, and it may be that I shall not die.'
'By God!' said Mr Wharton, rising from his chair suddenly, 'if
there was money to be made by it, I believe he would murder you
without a scruple.' Thus it was that within eighteen months of
her marriage the father spoke to his daughter of her husband.
'What am I to take with me?' she said to her husband a few days
later.
'You had better ask your father.'
'Why should I ask him, Ferdinand? How should he know?'
'And how should I?'
'I should have thought you would interest yourself about it.'
'Upon my word I have enough to interest me just at present,
without thinking of your finery. I suppose you mean what clothes
you should have?'
'I was not thinking of myself only.'
'You need think of nothing else. Ask him what he pleases to
allow you to spend, and then I will tell you what to get.'
'I will never ask him for anything, Ferdinand.'
'Then you may go without anything. You might as well do it at
once, for you will have to do it sooner or later. Or, if you
please, go to his tradesmen and say nothing to him about it.
They will give you credit. You see how it is, my dear. He has
cheated me in a most rascally manner. He has allowed me to marry
his daughter, and because I did not make a bargain with him as
another man would have done, he denies me the fortune I had a
right to expect with you. You know that the Israelites despoiled
the Egyptians, and it was taken as merit on their part. Your
father is a Egyptian to me, and I will despoil him. You can tell
him that I say so if you please.'
And so the days went on till the first week of February had
passed, and Parliament had met. Both Lopez and his wife were
still living in Manchester Square. Not another word had been
said as to that notice to quit, nor an allusion made to it. It
was supposed to be a settled thing that Lopez was to start with
his wife for Guatemala in the first week of April. Mr Wharton
had himself felt that difficulty as to his daughter's outfit, and
had told her that she might get whatever it pleased her on his
credit. 'For yourself, my dear.'
'Papa, I will get nothing till he bids me.'
'But you can't go across the world without anything. What are
you to do in such a place as that unless you have the things you
want?'
'What do poor people do who have to go? What should I do if you
had cast me off because of my disobedience?'
'But I have not cast you off.'
'Tell him that you will give him so much, and then, if he bids
me, I will spend it.'
'Let it be so. I will tell him.'
Upon that Mr Wharton did speak to his son-in-law;--coming upon
him suddenly one morning in the dining-room. 'Emily will want an
outfit if she is to go to this place.'
'Like other people she wants many things that she cannot get.'
'I will tell my tradesmen to furnish her with what she wants, up
to,--well,--suppose I say 200 pounds. I have spoken to her and
she wants your sanction.'
'My sanction for spending money? She can have that very
quickly.'
'You can tell her so;--or I will do so.'
Upon that Mr Wharton was going, but Lopez stopped him. It was
now essential that the money for the shares in the San Juan mine
should be paid up, and his father-in-law's pocket was still the
source from which the enterprising son-in-law had hoped to
procure it. Lopez had fully made up his mind to demand it,
and thought that the time had now come. And he was resolved that
he would not ask it as a favour on bended knee. He was beginning
to feel his own power, and trusted that he might prevail by other
means than begging. 'Mr Wharton,' he said, 'you and I have not
been very good friends lately.'
'No, indeed.'
'There was a time,--a very short time,--during which I thought
that we might hit it off together, and I did my best. You do
not, I fancy, like men of my class.'
'Well;--well! You had better go on if there be
anything to say.'
'I have much to say, and I will go on. You are a rich man, and I
am your son-in-law.' Mr Wharton put his left hand up to his
forehead, brushing the few hairs back from his head, but he said
nothing. 'Had I received from you during the last most vital
year that assistance which I think I had a right to expect, I
also might have been a rich man now. It is no good going back to
that.' Then he paused, but still Mr Wharton said nothing. 'Now
you know what has come to me and to your daughter. We are to be
expatriated.'
'Is that my fault?'
'I think it is, but I mean to say nothing further of that. This
Company which is sending me out, and which probably will
be the most thriving thing of the kind which has come up within
these twenty years, is to pay me a salary of 1,000 pounds a year
as resident manager of San Juan.'
'So I understand.'
'The salary alone would be a beggarly thing. Guatemala, I take
it, is not the cheapest country in the world in which a man can
live. But I am to go out there as the owner of fifty shares on
which 100 pounds each must be paid up, and I am entitled to draw
another 1,000 pounds a year as dividend on the profit of those
shares.'
'That will be twenty per cent.'
'Exactly.'
'And will double you salary.'
'Just so. But there is one little ceremony to be perfected
before I can be allowed to enter upon so halcyon a state of
existence. The 100 pounds a share must be paid up.' Mr Wharton
simply stared at him. 'I must have the 5,000 pounds to invest in
the undertaking before I can start.'
'Well!'
'Now I have not got 5,000 pounds myself, nor any part of it. You
do not wish, I suppose, to see either me or your daughter starve.
And as for me, I hardly flatter myself when I say that you are
very anxious to be rid of me, 5,000 pounds is not very much for
me to ask of you, as I regard it.'
'Such consummate impudence I never met in my life before!'
'Nor perhaps so much unprevaricating downright truth. At any
rate such is the condition of my affairs. If I am to go the
money must be paid this week. I have, perhaps foolishly, put off
mentioning the matter till I was sure that I could not raise the
sum elsewhere. Though I feel my claim on you to be good, Mr
Wharton, it is not pleasant to me to make it.'
'You are asking me for 5,000 pounds down!'
'Certainly I am.'
'What security am I to have?'
'Security?'
'Yes;--that if I pay it I shall not be troubled again by the
meanest scoundrel that it has ever been my misfortune to meet.
How am I to know that you will not come back to-morrow? How am I
to know that you will go at all? Do you think it will be
probable that I will give you 5,000 pounds on your own simple
word?'
'Then the scoundrel will stay in England,--and will generally
find it convenient to live in Manchester Square.'
'I'll be d-d if he does. Look here, sire. Between you and me
there can be a bargain, and nothing but a bargain. I will pay
the 5,000 pounds,--on certain conditions.'
'I didn't doubt at all that you would pay it.'
'I will go with you to the office of this Company, and will pay
for the shares if I can receive assurance there that the matter
is as you say, and that the shares will not be placed in your
power before you have reached Guatemala.'
'You can come to-day, sire, and receive all that assurance.'
'And I must have a written undertaking from you,--a document
which my daughter can show if it be necessary,--that you will
never claim her society again or trouble her with any
application.'
'You mistake me, Mr Wharton. My wife goes with me to Guatemala.'
'Then I will not pay one penny. Why should I? What is your
presence or absence to me except as it concerns her? Do you
think that I care for your threats of remaining here. The police
will set that right.'
'Wherever I go, my wife goes.'
'We'll see to that too. If you want the money, you must leave
her. Good morning.'
Mr Wharton as he went to his chambers thought the matter over.
He was certainly willing to risk the 5,000 pounds demanded if he
could rid himself and his daughter of this terrible incubus, even
if it were only for a time. If Lopez would but once go to
Guatemala, leaving his wife behind him, it would be comparatively
easy to keep them apart should he ever return. The difficulty
now was not in him, but in her. The man's conduct had been so
outrageous, so barefaced, so cruel, that the lawyer did not doubt
but that he could turn her husband out of his house, and keep the
wife, even now, were it not that she was determined to obey the
man whom she, in opposition to all her friends, had taken as her
master. 'I have done it myself, and I will bear it,' was all the
answer she would make when her father strove to persuade her to
separate herself from her husband. 'You have got Everett,' she
would say. 'When a girl is married she is divided from her
family;--and I am divided.' But she would willingly stay if
Lopez would bid her stay. It now seemed that he could not go
without the 5,000 pounds; and, when the pressure came upon him,
surely he would go and leave his wife.
In the course of that day Mr Wharton went to the offices of the
San Juan mine and asked to see the Director. He was shown up
into a half-furnished room, two storeys high, in Coleman Street,
where he found two clerks sitting upon stools;--and when he
asked for the Director was shown into the back room in which sat
the Secretary. The Secretary was a dark, plump little man with a
greasy face, who had the gift of assuming an air of great
importance as he twisted his chair round to face visitors who
came to inquire about the San Juan Mining Company. His name was
Hartlepod; and if the San Juan mine 'turned out trumps', as he
intended that it should, Mr Hartlepod meant to be a great man in
the city. To Mr Hartlepod Mr Wharton with considerable
embarrassment, explained as much of the joint history of himself
and Lopez as he found to be absolutely necessary. 'He has only
left the office about half an hour,' said Mr Hartlepod.
'Of course you understand he is my son-in-law.'
'He has mentioned your name to us, Mr Wharton, before now.'
'And he is going to Guatemala?'
'Oh yes;--he's going out. Has he not told you as much himself?'
'Certainly, sir. And he has told me that he is desirous of
buying certain shares in the Company before he starts.'
'Probably, Mr Wharton.'
'Indeed, I believe he cannot go unless he buys them.'
'That may be so, Mr Wharton. No doubt he has told you all that
himself.'
'The fact is, Mr Hartlepod, I am willing, under certain
stipulations, to advance him the money.' Mr Hartlepod bowed. 'I
need not trouble you with my private affairs between myself and
my son-in-law.' Again the Secretary bowed. 'But it seems to be
for his interest that he should go.'
'A very great opening indeed, Mr Wharton. I don't see how a man
is to have a better opening. A fine salary! His expenses are
paid! One of the very best things that has come up for many
years! And as for the capital he is to embark in the affair, he
is as safe to get twenty per cent in it,--as safe,--as safe as
the Bank of England.'
'He'll have the shares?'
'Oh yes;--the scrip will be handed to him at once.'
'And,--and--'
'If you mean about the mine, Mr Wharton, you may take my word
that it's all real. It's not one of those sham things that melt
away like snow and leave the shareholders nowhere. There's the
prospectus, Mr Wharton. Perhaps you have not seen that before.
Take it away and cast your eyes over it at your leisure.' Mr
Wharton put the somewhat lengthy pamphlet into his pocket. 'Look
at the list of Directors. We've three members of Parliament, a
baronet, and one or two City names that are as good,--as good as
the Bank of England. If that prospectus won't make a man
confident I don't know what will. Why, Mr Wharton, you don't
think that your son-in-law would get those fifty shares at par
unless he was going out as our general manager. You'll see if
you look. About a quarter of a million paid up. But it's all in
a box as one may say. It's among ourselves. The shares ain't in
the market. Of course it's not for me to say what should be done
between you and your son-in-law. Lopez is a friend of mine, and
a man I esteem, and all that. Nevertheless I shouldn't think of
advising you to do this or that,--or not to do it. But when you
talk of safety, Mr Wharton,--why, Mr Wharton, I don't scruple to
tell you as a man who knows what these things are, that this is
an opportunity that doesn't come a man's way perhaps twice in his
life.'
Mr Wharton found he had nothing more to say, and went back to
Lincoln's Inn. He knew very well that Mr Hartlepod's assurances
were not worth much. Mr Hartlepod himself and his belongings,
the clerks in his office, the look of the rooms, and the very
nature of the praises which he had sung, all them inspired
anything but confidence. Mr Wharton was a man of the world; and,
though he knew nothing of City ways, was quite aware that no man
in his senses would lay out 5,000 pounds on the mere word of Mr
Hartlepod. But still he was inclined to make the payment. If
only he could secure the absence of Lopez,--and if could be sure
that Lopez would in truth go to Guatemala, and also if he could
induce the man to go without his wife, he would risk the money.
The money would, of course, be thrown away,--but he would throw
it away. Lopez no doubt declared that he would not go without
his wife, even though the money were paid for him. But the money
was an alluring sum! As the pressure upon the man became
greater, Mr Wharton thought he would probably consent to leave
his wife behind him.
In his emergency the barrister went to his attorney and told him
everything. The two lawyers were closeted together for an hour,
and Mr Wharton's last words to his old friend were as follows:--
'I will risk the money, Walker, or rather I will consent
absolutely to throw it away,--as it will be thrown away,--if it
can be managed that he shall in truth go to this place without
his wife.'
CHAPTER 54
LIZZIE.
It cannot be supposed that Ferdinand Lopez at this time was a
very happy man. He had, at any rate, once loved his wife, and
would have loved her still could he have trained her to think as
he thought, to share his wishes, and 'to put herself into the
same boat with him',--as he was wont to describe the unison and
sympathy which he required from her. To give him his due, he did
not know that he was a villain. When he was exhorting her to
'get round her father' he was not aware that he was giving her
lessons which must shock a well-conditioned girl. He did not
understand that everything that she had discovered of his moral
disposition since her marriage was of a nature to disgust her.
And, not understanding all this, he conceived that he was
grievously wronged by her, in that she adhered to her father
rather than to him. This made him unhappy, and doubly
disappointed him. He had neither got the wife that he had
expected nor the fortune. But he still thought that the fortune
may come if he would only hold on to the wife which he had got.
And then everything had gone badly with him since his marriage.
He was apt, when thinking over his affairs, to attribute all this
to the fears and hesitation and parsimony of Sexty Parker. None
of his late ventures with Sexty Parker had been successful. And
now Sexty was in a bad condition, very violent, drinking hard,
declaring himself to be a ruined man, and swearing that if this
and that were not done he would have bitter revenge. Sexty still
believed in the wealth of his partner's father-in-law, and still
had some hope of salvation from that source. Lopez would declare
to him, and up to this very time persevered in protesting, that
salvation would be found in Bios. If Sexty would only risk two
or three thousand pounds more upon Bios,--or his credit to that
amount failing the immediate money,--things might still be
right. 'Bios be d-d,' said Sexty, uttering a string of heavy
imprecations. On that morning, he had been trusting to native
produce rather than to the new African spirit. But now, as the
Guatemala scheme really took form and loomed on Lopez's eyesight
as a thing that might be real, he endeavoured to keep out of
Sexty's way. But in vain, Sexty too had heard of Guatemala, and
in his misery hunted Lopez about the city. 'By G-, I believe
you're afraid to come to Little Tankard Yard,' he said one day,
having caught his victim under the equestrian statue in front of
the Exchange.
'What is the good of my coming when you will do nothing when I am
there?'
'I'll tell what it is, Lopez,--you're not going out of the
country about this mining business, if I know it.'
'Who said I was?'
'I'll put a spoke in your wheel there, my man. I'll give a
written account of the dealings between us to the Directors. By
G-, they shall know their man.'
'You're an ass, Sexty, and always were. Look here. If I can
carry on as though I were going to this place, I can draw 5,000
pounds from old Wharton. He has already offered it. He has
treated me with a stinginess that I never knew equalled. Had he
done what I had a right to expect, you and I would have been rich
men now. But at last I have got a hold upon him to 5,000 pounds.
As you and I stand, pretty nearly the whole of that will go to
you. But don't you spoil it all by making an ass of yourself.'
Sexty, who was three parts drunk, looked up into his face for a
few seconds, and then made his reply. 'I'm d-d if I believe a
word of it.' Upon that Lopez affected to laugh, and then made
his escape.
All this, as I have said, did not tend to make his life happy.
Though he had impudence enough, and callousness of conscience
enough to get his bills paid by Mr Wharton as often as he could,
he was not quite easy in his mind while he was doing so. His
ambition had never been high, but it had soared higher than that.
He had had great hopes. He had lived with some high people. He
had dined with lords and ladies. He had been the guest of a
Duchess. He had married the daughter of a gentleman. He had
nearly been a member of Parliament. He still belonged to what he
considered to be a first-rate club. From a great altitude he
looked down upon Sexty Parker and men of Sexty's class, because
of his social successes, and because he knew how to talk and to
look like a gentleman. It was unpleasant to him, therefore, to
be driven to the life he was now living. And the idea of going
to Guatemala and burying himself in a mine in Central America was
not to him a happy idea. In spite of all that he had done he had
still some hope that he might avoid the banishment. He had
spoken the truth to Sexty Parker in saying that he intended to
get the 5,000 pounds from Mr Wharton without that terrible
personal sacrifice, though he had hardly spoken the truth when he
assured his friend that the greater portion of that money would
go to him. There were many schemes fluctuating through his
brain, and all accompanied by many doubts. If he could get Mr
Wharton's money by giving up his wife, should he consent to give
her up? In either case should he stay or should he go? Should
he run one further great chance with Bios,--and if so, by whose
assistance? And if he should at least decide that he would do so
by the aid of a certain friend that was yet left to him, should
he throw himself at that friend's feet, the friend being a lady,
and propose to desert his wife and begin the world again with
her? For the lady in question was a lady in possession, as he
believed, of very large means. Or should he cut his throat and
have done with all his troubles, acknowledging to himself that
his career had been a failure, and that, therefore, it might be
brought with advantage to an end? 'After all,' said he to
himself, 'that may be the best way of winding up a bankrupt
concern.'
Our old friend Lady Eustace, in these days, lived in a very small
house in a very small street bordering upon Mayfair; but the
street, though very small, and having disagreeable relations with
a mews, still had an air of fashion about it. And with her lived
the widow, Mrs Leslie, who had introduced Mrs Dick Roby, and
through Mrs Roby, to Ferdinand Lopez. Lady Eustace was in the
enjoyment of a handsome income, as I hope that some of my readers
may remember,--and this income, during the last year or two, she
had learned to foster, if not with much discretion, at any rate
with great zeal. During her short life she had had many
aspirations. Love, poetry, sport, religion, fashion, Bohemianism
had all been tried; but in each crisis there had been a certain
care for wealth which had saved her from the folly of squandering
what she had won by her early energies in the pursuit of her then
prevailing passion. She had given her money to no lover, had not
lost it on race-courses, or in building churches,--nor even had
she materially damaged her resources by servants and equipages.
At the present time she was still young, and still pretty,--
though her hair and complexion took rather more time than in the
days when she won Sir Florian Eustace. She still liked a lover,
--or perhaps two,--though she had thoroughly convinced herself
that a lover may be bought too dear. She could still ride a
horse, though hunting regularly was too expensive for her. She
could talk of religion if she could find herself close to a well-
got-up clergyman,--being quite indifferent as to the
denomination of the religion. But perhaps a wild dash for a time
into fast vulgarity was what in her heart of hearts she liked
best,--only that it was so difficult to enjoy the pleasures
without risk of losing everything. And then, together with these
passions, and perhaps above them all, there had lately sprung up
in the heart of Lady Eustace a desire to multiply her means by
successful speculation. This was the friend with whom Ferdinand
Lopez had lately become intimate, and by whose aid he hoped to
extricate himself from some of his difficulties.
Poor as he was he had contrived to bribe Mrs Leslie by handsome
presents out of Bond Street;--for, as he still lived in
Manchester Square, and was the undoubted son-in-law of Mr
Wharton, his credit was not altogether gone. In the giving of
these gifts no purport was, of course, named, but Mrs Leslie was
probably aware that her good word with her friend was expected.
'I only know what I used to hear from Mrs Roby,' Mrs Leslie had
said to her friend. 'He was mixed up with Hunky's people, who
roll in money. Old Wharton wouldn't have given him his daughter
if he had not been doing well.'
'It's very hard to be sure,' said Lizzie Eustace.
'He looks like a man who'd know how to feather his own nest,'
said Mrs Leslie. 'Don't you think he's very handsome?'
'I don't know that he's likely to do the better for that.'
'Well; no; but there are men of whom you are sure, when you look
at them, that they'll be successful. I don't suppose he was
anything to begin with, but see where he is now!'
'I believe you are in love with him, my dear,' said Lizzie
Eustace.
'Not exactly. I don't know that he has given me any provocation.
But I don't see why a woman shouldn't be in love with him if she
likes. He is deal nicer than those fair-headed men who haven't
got a word to say to you, and yet look as though you ought to
jump down their mouths:--like that fellow you were trying to
talk to last night,--that Mr Fletcher. He could just jerk out
three words at a time, and yet he was proud as Lucifer. I like a
man who if he likes me is neither ashamed nor afraid to say so.'
'There's a romance there, you know. Mr Fletcher was in love with
Emily Wharton, and she threw him over for Ferdinand Lopez. They
say he has not held his head up since.'
'She was quite right,' said Mrs Leslie. 'But she is one of those
stiff-necked creatures who are set up with pride though they have
nothing to be proud of. I suppose she had a lot of money. Lopez
would never have taken her without.'
When, therefore, Lopez called one day at the little house in the
little street he was not an unwelcome visitor. Mrs Leslie was in
the drawing-room, but soon left it after his arrival. He had of
late been often there, and when he at once introduced the subject
on which he was himself intent it was not unexpected. 'Seven
thousand five hundred pounds!' said Lizzie, after listening to
the proposition which he had come to make. 'That is a very large
sum of money!'
'Yes;--it's a large sum of money. It's a large affair. I'm in
it to rather more than that, I believe.'
'How are you going to get people to drink it?' she asked after a
pause.
'By telling them that they ought to drink it. Advertise it. It
has become a certainty now that if you will only advertise
sufficiently you may make a fortune by selling anything. Only
the interest on the money expended increases in so large a ratio
in accordance with the magnitude of the operation! If you spend
a few hundreds in advertising you throw them away. A hundred
thousand pounds well laid out makes a certainty of anything.'
'What am I to get to show for my money;--I mean immediately, you
know?'
'Registered shares in the Company.'
'The Bios Company?'
'No;--we did propose to call ourselves Parker and Co., limited.
I think we shall change the name. They will probably use my
name. Lopez and Co., limited.'
'But it's all for Bios?'
'Oh yes;--all for Bios.'
'And it's to come from Central Africa?'
'It will be rectified in London, you know. Some English spirit
will perhaps be mixed. But I must not tell you the secrets of
the trade till you join us. That Bios is distilled from the
bark of the Duffer-tree is a certainty.'
'Have you drank any?'
'I've tasted it.'
'Is it nice?'
'Very nice;--rather sweet, you know, and will be the better for
mixing.'
'Gin?' suggested her ladyship.
'Perhaps so,--or whisky. I think I may say that you can't do
very much better with your money. You know I would not say this
to you were it not true. In such a matter I treat you as if,--
as if you were my sister.'
'I know how good you are,--but seven thousand five hundred! I
couldn't raise so much as that just at present.'
'There are to be six shares,' said Lopez, 'making 45,000 pounds
capital. Would you consent to take a share jointly with me?
That would be three thousand seven hundred and fifty.'
'But you have a share already,' said Lizzie suspiciously.
'I should then divide that with Mr Parker. We intend to register
at any rate as many as nine partners. Would you object to hold
it with me?' Lopez, as he asked this question, looked at her as
though he were offering her half his heart.
'No,' said Lizzie slowly, 'I don't suppose I should object to
that.'
'I should be doubly eager about the affair if I were in
partnership with you.'
'It's such a venture.'
'Nothing venture nothing have.'
'But I've got something as it is, Mr Lopez, and I don't want to
lose it all.'
'There's no chance of that if you join us.'
'You think Bios is so sure?'
'Quite safe,' said Lopez.
'You must give me a little more time to think about it,' said
Lady Eustace at last, panting with anxiety, struggling with
herself, anxious for the excitement which would come to her from
dealing in Bios, but still fearing to risk the money.
This had taken place immediately after Mr Wharton's offer of the
5,000 pounds in making which he had stipulated that Emily should
be left at home. Then a few days went by, and Lopez was pressed
for his money, at the office of the San Juan mine. Did he or did
he not mean to take up the mining shares allotted to him? If he
did mean to do so, he must do it at once. He swore by all his
gods that of course he meant to take them up. Had not Mr Wharton
himself been at the office, saying that he intended to pay for
them? Was not that a sufficient guarantee? They knew well
enough that Mr Wharton was a man to whom the raising of 5,000
pounds could be a matter of no difficulty. But they did not
know, never could know, how impossible it was to get anything
done by Mr Wharton. But Mr Wharton had promised to pay for the
shares, and when money was concerned his word would surely
suffice. Mr Hartlepod, backed by two of the Directors, said if
the thing was to go on at all, the money must really be paid at
once. But the conference was ended by allowing the new local
manager another fortnight in which to complete the arrangement.
Lopez allowed four days to pass by, during each of which he was
closeted for a time with Lady Eustace, and then made an attempt
to get at Mr Wharton through his wife. 'Your father has said
that he will pay the money for me,' said Lopez.
'If he has said it he certainly will do it.'
'But he has promised it on the condition that you should remain
at home. Do you wish to desert your husband?' To this she made
no immediate answer. 'Are you already anxious to be rid of me?'
'I should prefer to remain at home,' she said in a very low
voice.
'Then you do wish to desert your husband?'
'What is the use of all this, Ferdinand? You do not love me.
You did not marry me because I loved you.'
'By heaven I did;--for that and that only.'
'And how have you treated me?'
'What have I done to you?'
'But I do not mean to make accusations, Ferdinand. I should only
add to our miseries by that. We should be happier apart.'
'Not I. Nor is that my idea of marriage. Tell your father that
you wish to go with me, and then he will let us have the money.'
'I will tell him no lie, Ferdinand. If you bid me go, I will go.
Where you find a home I must find one too if it be your pleasure
to take me. But I will not ask my father to give you money
because it is my pleasure to go. Were I to say so he would not
believe me.'
'It is you who have told him to give it me only on the condition
of your staying.'
'I have told him nothing. He knows that I do not wish to go. He
cannot but know that. But he knows that I mean to go if you
require it.'
'And you will do nothing for me?'
'Nothing;--in regard to my father.' He raised his fist with the
thought of striking her, and she saw the motion. But his arm
fell again to his side. He had not quite come to that yet.
'Surely you will have the charity to tell me whether I am to go,
if it be fixed,' she said.
'Have I not told you twenty times?'
'Then it is fixed.'
Yes;--it is fixed. Your father will tell you about your things.
He has promised some beggarly sum,--about as much as a tallow-
chandler would give his daughter.'
'Whatever he does for me will be sufficient for me. I am not
afraid of my father, Ferdinand.'
'You shall be afraid of me before I have done with you,' said he,
leaving the room.
Then as he sat at his club, dining there alone, there came across
his mind what the world would be like to him if he could leave
his wife at home and take Lizzie Eustace with him to Guatemala.
Guatemala was very distant, and it would matter little there
whether the woman he brought with him was his wife or no. It was
clear enough to him that his wife desired no more of his company.
What were the conventions of the world to him? This other woman
had money at her own command. He could not make it his own
because he could not marry her, but he fancied that it might be
possible to bring her so far under his control as to make the
money almost as good as his own. Mr Wharton's money was very
hard to reach, and would be as hard to reach,--perhaps harder,--
when Mr Wharton was dead, as now, during his life. He had said a
good deal to the lady since the interview of which a report has
been given. She had declared herself to be afraid of Bios. She
did not in the least doubt that great things might be ultimately
done with Bios, but she did not quite see the way with her small
capital,--thus humbly did she speak of her wealth,--to be one
of those who should take the initiative in the matter. Bios
evidently required a great deal of advertisement, and Lizzie
Eustace had a short-sighted objection to expend what money she
had saved on the hoardings of London. Then he opened to her the
glories of Guatemala, not contenting himself with describing the
certainty of twenty per cent, but enlarging on the luxurious
happiness of life in a country so golden, so green, so gorgeous,
and so grand. It had been the very apple of the eye of the old
Spaniards. In Guatemala, he said, Cortez and Pizzaro had met and
embraced. They might have done so for anything as far as Lizzie
Eustace knew to the contrary. And here our hero took advantage
of his name. Don Diego di Lopez had been the first to raise the
banner of freedom in Guatemala when the kings of Spain became
tyrants to their American subjects. All is fair in love and war,
and Lizzie amidst the hard business of her life still loved a
dash of romance. Yet, he was about to change the scene and try
his fortune in that golden, green, and gorgeous country. 'You
will take your wife of course,' Lady Eustace had said. Then
Lopez had smiled, and shrugging his shoulders had left the room.
It was certainly the fact that she could not eat him. Other men
before Lopez have had to pick up what courage they could in their
attacks upon women by remembering that fact. She had flirted
with him in a very pleasant way, mixing up her prettiness and her
percentages in a manner that was peculiar to herself. He did not
know her, and he knew that he did not know her;--but still there
was the chance. She had thrown his wife more than once in his
face, after the fashion women do when they are wooed by married
men since the days of Cleopatra downwards. But he had taken that
simply as encouragement. He had already let her know that his
wife was a vixen who troubled his life. Lizzie had given him her
sympathy, and had almost given him a tear. 'But I am not a man
to be broken-hearted because I have made a mistake,' said Lopez.
'Marriage vows are very well, but they shall never bind me to
misery.' 'Marriage vows are not very well. They may be very
ill,' Lizzie had replied, remembering certain passages in her own
life.
There was no doubt about her money, and certainly she could not
eat him. The fortnight allowed him by the San Juan Company had
nearly gone by when he called at the little house in the little
street, resolved to push his fortune in that direction without
fear and without hesitation. Mrs Leslie again took her
departure, leaving them together, and Lizzie allowed her friend
to go, although the last words that Lopez had spoken had been, as
he thought, a fair prelude to the words he intended to speak to-
day. 'And what do you think of it?' he said, taking both her
hands in his.
'Think of what?'
'Of our Spanish venture.'
'Have you given up Bios, my friend?'
'No; certainly not,' said Lopez, seating himself beside her. 'I
have not taken the other half share, but I have kept my old
venture in the scheme. I believe in Bios, you know.'
'Ah;--it is nice to believe.'
'But I believe more firmly in the country to which I am going.'
'You are going then?'
'Yes; my friend;--I am going. The allurements are too strong to
be resisted. Think of that climate and of this.' He probably
had not heard of the mosquitoes of Central America when he so
spoke. 'Remember that an income that gives you comfort here will
there produce every luxury which wealth can purchase. It is to
be a king there, or to be but very common among commoners here.'
'And yet England is a dear old country.'
'Have you found it so? Think of the wrongs which you have
endured;--of the injuries you have suffered.'
'Yes indeed.' For Lizzie Eustace had gone through hard days in
her time.
'I certainly will fly from such a country to those golden shores
on which man may be free and unshackled.'
'And your wife?'
'Oh, Lizzie!' It was the first time he had called her Lizzie,
and she was apparently neither shocked nor abashed. Perhaps he
thought too much of this, not knowing how many men had called her
Lizzie in her time. 'Do not you at least understand that a man
or a woman may undergo a tie, and yet be justified in
disregarding it altogether?'
'Oh yes;--if there has been bigamy, or divorce, or anything of
that kind.' Now Lizzie had convicted her second husband of
bigamy, and had freed herself after that fashion.
'To h--- with their prurient laws,' said Lopez, rising suddenly
from his chair. 'I will neither appeal to them nor will I obey
them. And I expect from you as little subservience as I myself
am prepared to pay. Lizzy Eustace, will you go with me to that
land of the sun,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?
Will you dare to escape with me from the cold conventionalities,
from the miserable thraldom of this country bound in swaddling
cloths? Lizzie Eustace, if you will say the word, I will take
you to that land of glorious happiness.'
But Lizzie Eustace had 4,000 pounds a year and a balance at her
banker's. 'Mr Lopez,' she said.
'What answer have you to make me?'
'Mr Lopez, I think you must be a fool.'
He did at last succeed in getting himself into the street, and at
any rate she had not eaten him.
CHAPTER 55
MRS PARKER'S SORROWS.
The end of February had come, and as far as Mrs Lopez knew she
was to start for Guatemala in a month's time. And yet there was
so much indecision in her husband's manner, and apparently so
little done by him in regard to personal preparation, that she
could hardly bring herself to feel certain that she would have to
make the journey. From day to day her father would ask her
whether she had made her intended purchases, and she would tell
him that she had still postponed the work. Then he would say no
more, for he himself was hesitating, doubtful what he would do,
and still thinking that when at last the time should come, he
would buy his daughter's release at any price that might be
demanded. He had seen Lopez more than once, and had also seen Mr
Hartlepod. Mr Hartlepod had simply told him that he would be
very happy to register the shares on behalf of Lopez as soon as
the money was paid. Lopez had been almost insolent in his
bearing. 'Did Mr Wharton think,' he asked, 'that he was going to
sell his wife for 5,000 pounds?' 'I think you will have to raise
your offer,' Mr Walker had said to Mr Wharton. That was all very
well. Mr Wharton was willing enough to raise the offer. He
would have doubled the offer could he thereby have secured the
annihilation of Lopez. 'I will raise it if he will go without
his wife, and give her a written assurance that he would never
trouble her again.' But the arrangement was one which Mr Walker
found it very difficult to carry out. So things went on till the
end of February had come.
And during all this time Lopez was still a resident in Mr
Wharton's house. 'Papa,' she said to him one day, 'this is the
cruellest thing of all. Why don't you tell him he must go?'
'Because he would take you with him.'
'It would be better so. I could come and see you.'
'I did tell him to go--in my passion. I repented of it
instantly, because I should have lost you. But what did my
telling matter to him? He was very indignant, and yet he is
still here.'
'You told him to go?'
'Yes;--but I am glad that he did not obey me. There must be an
end of it soon, I suppose.'
'I do not know, papa.'
'Do you think he will not go?'
'I feel that I know nothing, papa. You must not let him stay
always, you know.'
'And what will become of you when he goes?'
'I must go with him. Why should you be sacrificed also? I will
tell him that he must leave the house. I am not afraid of him,
papa.'
'Not yet, my dear;--not yet. We will see.'
At this time Lopez declared his purpose one day of dining at the
Progress, and Mr Wharton took advantage of the occasion to remain
at home with his daughter. Everett was now expected, and there
was a probability that he might come on this evening. Mr Wharton
therefore returned from his chambers early; but when he reached
the house he was told that there was a woman in the dining-room
with Mrs Lopez. The servant did not know what woman. She had
asked to see Mrs Lopez, and Mrs Lopez had gone down to her.
The woman in the dining-room was Mrs Parker. She had called at
the house about half-past five, and Emily had at once come down
when summoned by tidings that a "lady" wanted to see her.
Servants have a way of announcing a woman a lady, which clearly
expresses their own opinion that the person in question was not a
lady. So it had been on the present occasion, but Mrs Lopez had
at once gone to her visitor. 'Oh, Mrs Parker, I am so glad to
see you. I hope you are well.'
'Indeed then, Mrs Lopez, I am very far from well. No poor woman,
who is the mother of five children, was ever farther from being
well than I am.'
'Is anything wrong?'
'Wrong, ma'am. Everything is wrong. When is Mr Lopez going to
pay my husband all the money he has took from him?'
'Has he taken money?'
'Taken! he has taken everything. He has shorn my husband as
bare as a board. We're ruined, Mrs Lopez, and it's your husband
has done it. When we were at Dovercourt, I told you how it was
going to be. His business has left him, and now there is
nothing. What are we to do?' The woman was seated on a chair,
leaning forward with her two hands on her knees. The day was
wet, the streets were half mud and half snow, and the poor woman,
who had made her way through the slush, was soiled and wet. 'I
look to you to tell me what me and my children is to do. He's
your husband, Mrs Lopez.'
'Yes, Mrs Parker, he is my husband.'
'Why couldn't he let Sexty alone? Why should the like of him be
taking the bread out of my children's mouths? What had we ever
done to him? You're rich.'
'Indeed I am not, Mrs Parker.'
'Yes, you are. You're living here in a grand house, and your
father's made of money. You'll know nothing of want, let the
worst come to the worst. What are we to do, Mrs Lopez? I'm the
wife of that poor creature, and you're the wife of the man that
has ruined him. What are we to do, Mrs Lopez?'
'I do not understand my husband's business, Mrs Parker.'
'You're one with him, ain't you? If anybody has ever come to me
and said my husband had robbed him, I'd never have stopped till I
knew the truth of it. If any woman had ever said to me that
Parker had taken the bread out of her children's mouths, do you
think that I'd sit as you are sitting? I tell that Lopez has
robbed us,--has robbed us, and taken everything.'
'What can I say, Mrs Parker;--what can I do?'
'Where is he?'
'He is not here. He is dining at his club.'
'Where is that? I will go there and shame him before them all.
Don't you feel no shame? Because you've got things comfortable
here, I suppose it's all nothing to you. You don't care, though
my children were starving in the gutter,--as they will do.'
'If you knew me, Mrs Parker, you wouldn't speak to me like that.'
'Know you! Of course I know you. You're a lady, and your
father's a rich man, and your husband thinks no end of himself.
And we're poor people, so it don't matter whether we're robbed
and ruined or not. That's about it.'
'If I had anything, I'd give you all that I had.'
'And he's taken to drinking that hard that he's never rightly
sober from morning to night.' As she told this story of her
husband's disgrace, the poor woman burst into tears. 'Who's to
trust him with business now? He's that broken-hearted that he
don't know which way to turn,--only to the bottle. And Lopez
has done it all,--done it all! I haven't got a father, ma'am,
who has got a house over his head for me and my babies. Only
think if you was turned out into the street with your baby, as I
am like to be.'
'I have no baby,' said the wretched woman through her tears and
sobs.
'Haven't you, Mrs Lopez? Oh dear!' exclaimed the soft-hearted
woman, reduced at once to pity. 'How was it then?'
'He died, Mrs Parker,--just a few days after he was born.'
'Did he now? Well, well. We all have our troubles, I suppose.'
'I have mine, I know,' said Emily, 'and very, very heavy they
are. I cannot tell you what I have had to suffer.'
'Isn't he good to you?'
'I cannot talk about it, Mrs Parker. What you tell me about
yourself has added greatly to my sorrows. My husband is talking
of going away--to live out of England.'
'Yes, at a place they call,--I forgot what they call it, but I
heard it.'
'Guatemala,--in America.'
'I know. Sexty told me. He has no business to go anywhere,
while he owes Sexty such a lot of money. He has taken
everything, and now he is going to Kattymaly!' At this moment Mr
Wharton knocked at the door and entered the room. As he did so
Mrs Parker got up and curtsied.
'This is my father, Mrs Parker,' said Emily. 'Papa, this is Mrs
Parker. She is the wife of Mr Parker, who is Ferdinand's
partner. She has come here with bad news.'
'Very bad news, indeed, sir,' said Mrs Parker, curtseying again.
Mr Wharton frowned, not as being angry with the woman, but
feeling that some further horror was to be told him of his son-
in-law. 'I can't help coming, sir,' continued Mrs Parker.
'Where am I to go if I don't come? Mr Lopez, sir, has ruined us
root and branch,--root and branch.'
'That at any rate is not my fault,' said Mr Wharton,
'But she is his wife, sir. Where am I to go if not to where he
lives? Am I to put up with everything gone, and my poor husband
in the right way to go to Bedlam, and not to say a word about it
to the grand relations of him who did it all?'
'He is a bad man,' said Mr Wharton. 'I cannot make him
otherwise.'
'Will he do nothing for us?'
'I will tell you all I know about him.' Then Mr Wharton did tell
her all that he knew, as to the appointment at Guatemala and the
amount of salary which was to be attached to it. 'Whether he
will do anything for you, I cannot say;--I should think not,
unless he be forced. I should advise you to go to the offices of
the Company in Coleman Street and try to make some terms there.
But I fear,--I fear that it will all be useless.'
'Then we may starve.'
'It is not her fault,' said Mr Wharton, pointing to his daughter.
'She has had no hand in it. She knows less of it than you do.'
'It is my fault,' said Emily, bursting out in self-reproach,--
'my fault that I married him.'
'Whether married or single he would have preyed upon Mr Parker to
the same extent.'
'Like enough,' said the poor wife. 'He'd prey upon anybody as he
could get hold of. And so, Mr Wharton, you think that you can do
nothing for me.'
'If your want be immediate I can relieve it,' said the barrister.
Mrs Parker did not like the idea of accepting direct charity,
but, nevertheless, on going away did take the five sovereigns
which Mr Wharton offered to her.
After such an interview as that the evening between the father
and the daughter was not very happy. She was eaten up by
remorse. Gradually she had learned how frightful was the thing
she had done in giving herself to a man of whom she had known
nothing. And it was not only that she had degraded herself by
loving such a man, but that she had been persistent in clinging
to him though her father and all his friends had told her of the
danger which she was running. And now it seemed that she had
destroyed her father as well as herself! All that she could do
was to be persistent in her prayer that he would let her go. 'I
have done it,' she said that night, 'and I could bear it better,
if you would let me bear it alone.' But he only kissed her, and
sobbed over her, and held her close to his heart with his
clinging arms,--in a manner in which he had never held her in
their old happy days.
He took himself to his own rooms before Lopez returned, but she
of course had to bear her husband's presence. As she had
declared to her father more than once, she was not afraid of him.
Even though he should strike her,--though he should kill her,--
she would not be afraid of him. He had already done worse to her
than anything that could follow. 'Mrs Parker has been here to-
day,' she said to him that night.
'And what did Mrs Parker have to say?'
'That you ruined her husband.'
'Exactly. When a man speculates and doesn't win of course he
throws the blame on someone else. And when he is too much of a
cur to come himself, he sends his wife.'
'She says you owe him money.'
'What business have you to listen to what she says? If she comes
again, do not see her. Do you understand me?'
'Yes, I understand. She saw papa also. If you owe him money,
should it not be paid?'
'My dearest love, everybody who owes anything to anybody should
always pay it. That is so self-evident that one would almost
suppose that it might be understood without being enunciated.
But the virtue of paying debts is incompatible with an absence of
money. Now, if you please, we will not say anything more about
Mrs Parker. She is not at any rate a fit companion for you.'
'It was you who introduced her.'
'Hold your tongue about her,--and let that be an end of it. I
little knew what a world of torment I was preparing for myself
when I allowed you to come and live in your father's house.'
CHAPTER 56
WHAT THE DUCHESS THOUGHT OF HER HUSBAND.
When the session began it was understood in the political world
that a very strong opposition was to be organized against the
Government under the guidance of Sir Orlando Drought, and that
the great sin to be imputed to the Cabinet was an utter
indifference to the safety and honour of Great Britain, as
manifested by their neglect of the navy. All the world knew that
Sir Orlando had deserted the Coalition because he was not allowed
to build new ships, and of course Sir Orlando would make the most
of his grievance. With him was joined Mr Boffin, the patriotic
Conservative who had never listened to the voice of the seducer,
and the staunch remainder of the Tory party. And with them the
more violent of the Radicals were prepared to act, not desirous,
indeed, that new ships should be built, or that a Conservative
Government should be established,--or, indeed, that anything
should be done,--but animated by intense disgust that so mild a
politician as the Duke of Omnium should be Prime Minister. The
fight began at once, Sir Orlando objecting violently to certain
passages in the Queen's Speech. It was all very well to say that
the country was at present at peace with all the world; but how
was peace to be maintained without a fleet? Then Sir Orlando
paid a great many compliments to the Duke, and ended his speech
by declaring him to be the most absolutely faineant minister that
had disgraced the country since the Duke of Newcastle. Mr Monk
defended the Coalition, and assured the House that the navy was
not only the most powerful navy existing, but that it was the
most powerful that ever had existed in the possession of this or
any other country, and was probably in absolute efficiency
superior to the combined navies of all the world. The House was
not shocked by statements absolutely at variance with each other,
coming from two gentlemen who had lately been members of the same
Government, and who must be supposed to know what they are
talking about, but seemed to think that upon the whole Sir
Orlando had done his duty. For though there was complete
confidence in the navy as a navy, and though a very small
minority would have voted for any considerably increased expense,
still it was well that there should be an opposition. And how
can there be an opposition without a subject for grumbling,--
some matter on which a minister can be attacked? No one really
thought that the Prussians and French combined would invade our
shores and devastate our fields, and plunder London, and carry
our daughters away into captivity. The state of the funds showed
very plainly that there was no such fear. But a good cry was a
very good thing,--and it is always well to rub up the officials
of the Admiralty by a little wholesome abuse. Sir Orlando was
thought to have done his business well. Of course he did not
risk a division upon the address. Had he done so he would have
been 'nowhere'. But, as it was, he was proud of his achievement.
The ministers generally would have been indifferent to the very
hard words that were said of them, knowing what they were worth,
and feeling aware that a ministry which had everything too easy
was very sore on the subject. The old Duke's work at this time
consisted almost all together in nursing the younger Duke. It
did sometimes occur to his elder Grace that it might be well to
let his brother retire, and that a Prime Minister, malgre lui,
could not be a successful Prime Minister, or a useful one. But
if the Duke of Omnium went the Coalition must go too, and the
Coalition had been the offspring of the old statesman. The
country was thriving under the Coalition, and there was no real
reason why it should not last for the next ten years. He
continued, therefore, his system of coddling, and was ready at
any moment, or at every moment, to pour, if not comfort, at any
rate consolation into the ears of his unhappy friend. In the
present emergency, it was the falsehood and general baseness of
Sir Orlando which nearly broke the heart of the Prime Minister.
'How is one to live,' he said, 'if one has to do with men of that
kind?'
'But you haven't to do with him any longer,' said the Duke of St
Bungay.
'When I see a man who is supposed to have earned the name of
statesman, and been high in the councils of his sovereign,
induced by personal jealousy to do as he is doing, it makes me
feel that an honest man should not place himself where he may
have to deal with such persons.'
'According to that the honest men are to desert their country in
order that the dishonest men may have everything their own way.'
Our Duke could not answer this, and therefore for the moment he
yielded. But he was unhappy, saturnine, and generally silent
except when closeted with his ancient mentor. And he knew that
he was saturnine and silent, and that it behoved him as a leader
of men to be genial and communicative,--listening to counsel
even if he did not follow it, and at any rate appearing to have
confidence in his colleagues.
During this time Mr Slide was not inactive, and in his heart of
hearts the Prime Minister was more afraid of Mr Slide's attacks
than of those made upon him by Sir Orlando Drought. Now that
Parliament was sitting, and the minds of men were stirred to
political feeling by the renewed energy of the House, a great
deal was being said in many quarters about the Silverbridge
election. The papers had taken the matter up generally, some
accusing the Prime Minister and some defending. But the defence
was almost as unpalatable to him as the accusation. It was
admitted on all sides that the Duke, both as a peer and as a
Prime Minister, should have abstained from any interference
whatever in the election. And it was also admitted on all sides
that he had not so abstained;--if there was any truth at all in
the allegation that he had paid the money for Mr Lopez. But it
was pleaded on his behalf that the Duke of Omnium had always
interfered in Silverbridge, and that no Reform Bill had ever had
any effect in reducing their influence in that borough. Frequent
allusion was made to the cautious Dod, who, year after year, had
reported that the Duke of Omnium exercised considerable influence
in the borough. And then the friendly newspapers went on to
explain that the Duke had in this instance stayed his hand, and
that the money, if paid at all, had been paid because the
candidate who was to have been his nominee had been thrown over,
when the Duke at the last moment made up his mind that he would
abandon the privilege which had hitherto been always exercised by
the head of his family, and which had been exercised more than
once or twice in his own favour. But Mr Slide, day after day,
repeated his question, 'We want to know whether the Prime
Minister did or did not pay the election expenses of Mr Lopez at
the last Silverbridge election; and if so, why he paid them. We
shall continue to ask this question till it has been answered,
and when asking it we again say that the actual correspondence on
the subject between the Duke and Mr Lopez is in our hands.' And
then, after a while, allusions were made to the Duchess,--for Mr
Slide had learned all the facts of the case from Lopez himself.
When Mr Slide found how hard it was 'to draw his badger', as he
expressed himself concerning his own operations, he at last
openly alluded to the Duchess, running the risk of any punishment
that might fall upon him by action for libel or by severe
reprehension from his colleagues of the Press. 'We have as yet,'
he said, 'received no answers to the questions which we have felt
ourselves called upon to ask in reference to the conduct of the
Prime Minister at the Silverbridge election. We are of the
opinion that all interference by peers with the constituencies of
the country should be put down by the strong hand of the law as
thoroughly and unmercifully as we are putting down ordinary
bribery. But when the offending peer is also the Prime Minister
of this great country, it becomes doubly the duty of those who
watch over the public safety,'--Mr Slide always speaks of
himself as watching over the public safety,--'to animadvert upon
his crime till it has been assoiled, or at any rate repented.
From what we now hear we have reason to believe that the crime is
acknowledged. Had the payment on behalf of Mr Lopez not been
made,--as it certainly was made, or the letters in our hand
would be impudent forgeries,--the charge would long since have
been denied. Silence in such a matter amounts to a confession.
But we understand that the Duke intends to escape under the plea
that he has a second self, powerful as he is to exercise the
baneful influence which his territorial wealth unfortunately
gives him, but for the actions of which second self he, as a Peer
of Parliament and as Prime Minister, is not responsible. In
other words we are informed that the privilege belonging to the
Palliser family at Silverbridge was exercised, not by the Duke
himself, but by the Duchess;--and that the Duke paid the money
when he found out that the Duchess had promised more than she
could perform. We should hardly have thought that even a man so
notoriously weak as the Duke of Omnium would have endeavoured to
ride out the responsibility by throwing the blame upon his wife;
but he will certainly find that the attempt, if made, will fail.'
'Against the Duchess herself we wish to say not a word. She is
known as exercising a wide if not discriminate hospitality. We
believe her to be a kind-hearted, bustling, ambitious lady, to
whom any little faults may be easily forgiven on account of her
good-nature and generosity. But we cannot accept her
indiscretion as an excuse for a most unconstitutional act
performed by the Prime Minister of this country.'
Latterly the Duchess had taken her own copy of the "People's
Banner". Since she had found those around her were endeavouring
to keep from her what was being said of her husband in regard to
the borough, she had been determined to see it all. She
therefore read the article from which two or three paragraphs
have just been given,--and having read it she handed it to her
friend Mrs Finn. 'I wonder that you trouble yourself with such
trash,' her friend said to her.
'That is all very well, my dear, for you, but we poor wretches
who are the slaves of the people have to regard what is said of
us in the "People's Banner".
'It would be much better for you to neglect it.'
'Just as authors are told not to read the criticisms;--but I
never would believe any author who told me that he didn't read
what was said about him. I wonder when the man found out that I
was good-natured. He wouldn't find me good-natured if I could
get hold of him.'
'You are not going to allow it to torment you?'
'For my own sake, not a moment. I fancy that if I might be
permitted to have my own way, I could answer him very easily.
Indeed with these dregs of the newspapers, these gutter-
slanderers, if one would be open and say all the truth aloud what
would one have to fear? After all, what is it that I did? I
disobeyed my husband because I thought that he was too
scrupulous. Let me say as much, out loud to the public,--saying
also that I am sorry for it, as I am,--and who would be against
me? Who would have a word to say after that? I should be the
most popular woman in England for a month,--and, as regards
Plantagenet, Mr Slide and his articles would all sink into
silence. But even though he were to continue this from day to
day for a twelvemonth it would not hurt me,--but then I know how
it scorches him. This mention of my name will make it more
intolerable to him than ever. I doubt that you know him even
yet.'
'I thought that I did.'
'Though in manner he is as dry as a stick, though all his
pursuits are opposite to the very idea of romance, though he
passes his days and nights thinking how he may take a halfpenny
in the pound off the taxes of the people without robbing the
revenue, there is a dash of chivalry about him worthy of the old
poets. To him a woman, particularly his own woman, is a thing so
fine and so precious that the winds of heaven should hardly be
allowed to blow upon her. He cannot bear to think that people
should even talk of his wife. And yet, heaven knows, poor
fellow, I have given people occasion enough to talk of me. And
he has a much higher chivalry than that of the old poets. They,
or their heroes, watched their women because they did not want to
have trouble about them,--shut them up in castles, kept them in
ignorance, and held them as far as they could out of harm's way.'
'I hardly think they succeeded,' said Mrs Finn.
'But in pure selfishness they tried all they could. But he is
too proud to watch. If you and I were hatching treason against
him in the dark, and chance brought him there, he would stop his
ears with his fingers. He is all trust, even when he knows that
he is being deceived. He is honour complete from head to foot.
Ah, it was before you knew me when I tried him the hardest. I
never could quite tell you the story, and I won't try it now; but
he behaved like a god. I could never tell him what I felt,--but
I felt it.'
'You ought to love him.'
'I do;--but what's the use of it? He is a god, but I am not a
goddess;--and then, though he is a god, he is a dry, silent,
uncongenial and uncomfortable god. It would have suited me much
better to have married a sinner. But then the sinner that I
would have married was so irredeemable a scapegrace.'
'I do not believe in a woman marrying a bad man in the hope of
making him good.'
'Especially not when the woman is naturally inclined to evil
herself. It will half kill him when he reads all this about me.
He has read it already, and it has already half killed him. For
myself I do not mind it in the least, but for his sake I mind it
much. It will rob him of his only possible answer to the
accusation. The very thing which this wretch in the newspaper
says he will say, and that he will be disgraced by saying it, is
the very thing that he ought to say. And there would be no
disgrace in it,--beyond what I might well bear for my little
fault, and which I could bear so easily.'
'Shall you speak to him about it?'
'No; I dare not. In this matter it has gone beyond speaking. I
suppose he does talk it over with the old Duke; but he will say
nothing to me about it,--unless he were to tell me that he had
resigned, and that we were to start off and live at Matching for
the next ten years. I was so proud when they made him Prime
Minister, but I think that I am beginning to regret it now.'
Then there was a pause, and the Duchess went on, with her
newspapers; but she soon resumed her discourse. Her heart was
full, and out of a full heart the mouth speaks. 'They should
have made me Prime Minister, and have let him be Chancellor of
the Exchequer. I begin to see the ways of Government now. I
could have done all the dirty work. I could have given away
garters and ribbons, and made my bargains while giving them. I
could select sleek, easy bishops who wouldn't be troublesome. I
could give pensions or withhold them, and make the stupid men
into peers. I could have the big noblemen at my feet, praying to
be Lieutenants of Counties. I could dole out secretaryships and
lordships, and never a one without getting something in return.
I could brazen out a job and let the "People's Banner" and the
Slides make their worst of it. And I think I could make myself
popular with my party, and do the high-flowing patriotic talk for
the benefit of the Provinces. A man at a regular office has to
work. That's what Plantagenet is fit for. He wants always to be
doing something that shall be really useful, and a man has to
toil at that and really to know things. But a Prime Minister
should never go beyond generalities about commerce, agriculture,
peace, and general philanthropy. Of course he should have the
gift of the gab, and that Plantagenet hasn't got. He never wants
to say anything unless he has got something to say. I could do a
Mansion House dinner to a marvel!'
'I don't doubt that you could speak at all times, Lady Glen.'
'Oh, I do so wish that I had the opportunity,' said the Duchess.
Of course the Duke had read the article in the privacy of his own
room, and of course the article had nearly maddened him with
anger and grief. As the Duchess had said, the article had taken
from him the very ground on which his friends had told him that
he could stand. He had never consented, and never would consent,
to lay the blame publicly on his wife; but he had begun to think
that he must take notice of the charge made against him, and
depute someone to explain for him in the House of Commons that
the injury had been done at Silverbridge by the indiscretion of
an agent who had not fulfilled his employer's intentions, and
that the Duke had thought it right afterwards pay the money in
consequence of the indiscretion. He had not agreed to this, but
had brought himself to think that he must agree to it. But now,
of course, the questions would follow:--Who was the indiscreet
agent? Was the Duchess the person for whose indiscretions he had
had to pay 500 pounds to Mr Lopez? And in this matter did he not
find himself in accord even with Mr Slide? 'We should hardly
have thought that even a man so notoriously weak as the Duke of
Omnium would have endeavoured to ride out of the responsibility
by throwing the blame on his wife.' He read and reread those
words till he knew them by heart. For a few moments it seemed to
him to be an evil in the Constitution that the Prime Minister
should not have the power of instantly crucifying so foul a
slanderer;--and yet it was the very truth of the words that
crushed him. He was weak,--he told himself,--notoriously weak,
it must be, and it would be most mean in him to ride out of
responsibility by throwing the blame upon his wife. But what
else was he to do? There seemed to him to be but one course,--
to get up in the House of Lords and declared that he paid the
money because he thought it right to do under the circumstances
which he could not explain, and to declare that it was not his
intention to say another word on the subject, or to have another
word said on his behalf.
There was a Cabinet Council held that day, but no one ventured to
speak to the Prime Minister as to the accusation. Though he
considered himself to be weak, his colleagues were all more or
less afraid of him. There was a certain silent dignity about the
man which saved him from the evils, as it also debarred him from
the advantages, of familiarity. He had spoken on the subject to
Mr Monk and to Phineas Finn, and, as the reader knows, very often
to his old mentor. He had also mentioned it to his friend Lord
Cantrip, who was not in the Cabinet. Coming away from the
Cabinet he took Mr Monk's arm, and led him away to his own room
in the Treasury Chambers. 'Have you happened to see an article
in the "People's Banner" this morning?' he asked.
'I never see the "People's Banner",' said Mr Monk.
'There it is;--just look at that.' Whereupon Mr Monk read the
article. 'You understand what people call constitutional
practice as well as anyone I know. As I told you before, I did
pay that man's expenses. Did I do anything unconstitutional?'
'That would depend, Duke, on the circumstances. If you were to
back a man up by your wealth in an expensive contest, I think it
would be unconstitutional. If you set yourself to work in that
way, and cared not what you spent, you might materially
influence the elections, and buy parliamentary support for
yourself.'
'But in this case the payment was made after the man had failed,
and certainly had not been promised either by me or by anyone on
my behalf.'
'I think it was unfortunate,' said Mr Monk.
'Certainly; certainly; but I am not asking as to that,' said the
Duke impatiently. 'The man had been injured by indiscreet
persons acting on my behalf and in opposition to my wishes.' He
said not a word about the Duchess; but Mr Monk no doubt knew that
her Grace had been at any rate one of the indiscreet persons.
'He applied to me for the money, alleging that he had been
injured by my agents. That being so,--presuming that my story
be correct,--did I act unconstitutionally?'
'I think not,' said Mr Monk, 'and I think that the circumstances,
when explained, will bear you harmless.'
'Thank you; thank you. I did not want to trouble you about that
just at present.'
CHAPTER 57
THE EXPLANATION.
Mr Monk had been altogether unable to decipher the Duke's purpose
in the question he had asked. About an hour afterwards they
walked down to the Houses together. Mr Monk having been kept at
his office. 'I hope I wasn't a little short with you just now,'
said the Duke.
'I did not find it out,' said Mr Monk, smiling.
'You read what was in the papers, and you may imagine that it is
of a nature to irritate a man. I knew that no one could answer
my question so correctly as you, and therefore I was rather a
little eager to keep directly to the question. It occurred to me
afterwards that I had been--perhaps uncourteous.'
'Not at all, Duke.'
'If I was, your goodness will excuse an irritated man. If a
question were asked about it in the House of Commons who would be
the best man to answer it? Would you do it?'
Mr Monk considered a while. 'I think,' he said, 'that Mr Finn
would do it with better grace. Of course I will do it if you
wish it. But he has tact in such matters, and it is known that
his wife is much regarded by her Grace.'
'I will not have the Duchess's name mentioned,' said the Duke,
turning short upon his companion.
'I did not allude to that, but I thought that the intimacy which
existed might make it pleasant to you to employ Mr Finn as the
exponent of your wishes.'
'I have the greatest confidence in Mr Finn, certainly, and am on
most friendly personal terms with him. It shall be so, if I
decide on answering any questions in your House on a matter so
purely personal to myself.'
'I would suggest that you should have the question asked in a
friendly way. Get some independent member, such as Mr Beverley
or Sir James Deering, to ask it. The matter would then be
brought forward in no carping spirit, and you would be enabled,
through Mr Finn, to set the matter at rest. You have probably
spoken to the Duke about it.'
'I have mentioned it to him.'
'Is not that what would recommend?'
The old Duke had recommended that the entire truth should be
told, and that the Duchess's operations should be made public.
Here was our poor Prime Minister's great difficulty. He and his
Mentor were at variance. His Mentor was advising that the real
naked truth should be told, whereas Telemachus was intent on
keeping the name of the actual culprit in the background. 'I
will think it all over,' said the Prime Minister as the two
parted company at Palace Yard.
That evening he spoke to Lord Cantrip on the subject. Though the
matter was odious to him, he could not keep his mind from it for
a moment. Had Lord Cantrip seen the article in the "People's
Banner"? Lord Cantrip, like Mr Monk, declared that the paper in
question did not constitute part of his usual morning's
recreation. 'I won't ask you to read it,' said the Duke;--'but
it contains a very bitter attack upon me,--the bitterest that
has yet been made. I suppose I ought to notice the matter?'
'If I were you,' said the Lord Cantrip, 'I should put myself into
the hands of the Duke of St Bungay, and do exactly what he
advises. There is no man in England knows so well as he does
what should be done in such a case as this.' The Prime Minister
frowned and said nothing. 'My dear Duke,' continued Lord
Cantrip, 'I can give you no other advice. Who is there that has
your personal interest and your honour at heart so entirely as
his Grace;--and what man can be a more sagacious or more
experienced adviser?'
'I was thinking that you might ask a question about it in our
House.'
'I?'
'You would do it for me in the manner that--that would be free
from all offence.'
'If I did it all, I should certainly strive to do that. But it
has never occurred to me that you would make such a suggestion.
Would you give me a few minutes to think about it?' 'I couldn't
do it,' Lord Cantrip said afterwards. 'By taking such a step,
even at your request, I should certainly express an opinion that
the matter was one which Parliament was entitled to expect that
you should make an explanation. But my own opinion is that
Parliament has no business to meddle in the matter. I do not
think that every action of a minister's life should be made
matter of inquiry because a newspaper may choose to make allusion
to it. At any rate, if any word is said about it, it should, I
think, be said in the other house.'
'The Duke of St Bungay thinks that something should be said.'
'I could not, myself, consent even to appear to desire information
on a matter so entirely personal to yourself.' The Duke bowed,
and smiled with a cold, glittering, uncomfortable smile which
would sometimes cross his face when he was not pleased, and no
more was then said on the subject.
Attempts were made to have the question asked in a far different
spirit by some hostile member of the House of Commons. Sir
Orlando Drought was sounded, and he for a while did give ear to
the suggestion. But, as he came to have the matter full before
him, he could not do it. The Duke had spurned his advice as a
minister, and had refused to sanction a measure which he, as the
head of a branch of the Government, had proposed. The Duke had
so offended him that he conceived himself bound to regard the
Duke as his enemy. But he knew,--and he could not escape from
the knowledge,--that England did not contain a more honourable
man than the Duke. He was delighted that the Duke should be
vexed and thwarted, and called ill names in the matter. To be
gratified at this discomfiture of his enemy was in the nature of
parliamentary opposition. Any blow that might weaken his
opponent was a blow in his favour. But his was a blow which he
could not strike with his own hands. There were things in
parliamentary tactics which even Sir Orlando could not do.
Arthur Fletcher was also asked to undertake the task. He was the
successful candidate, the man who opposed Lopez, and who was
declared by the "People's Banner" to have emancipated that
borough by his noble conduct from the tyranny of the House of
Palliser. And it was thought that he might like an opportunity
of making himself known in the House. But he was simply
indignant when the suggestion was made to him. 'What is it to
me,' he said, 'who paid the blackguard's expenses?'
This went on for some weeks after Parliament had met, and for
some days even after the article in which direct allusion was
made to the Duchess. The Prime Minister could not be got to
consent that no notice should be taken of the matter, let the
papers or the public say what they would, nor could he be induced
to let the matter be handled in a manner proposed by the elder
Duke. And during this time he was in such a fever that those
about him felt that something must be done. Mr Monk suggested
that if everybody held his tongue,--meaning all the Duke's
friends,--the thing would wear itself out. But it was apparent
to those who were nearest to the minister, to Mr Warburton, for
instance, and the Duke of St Bungay, that the man himself would be
worn out first. The happy professor of a thick skin can hardly
understand how one not so blessed may be hurt by the thong of a
little whip! At last the matter was arranged. At the
instigation of Mr Monk, Sir James Deering, who was really the
father of the House, an independent member, but one who generally
voted with the Coalition, consented to ask the question in the
House of Commons. And Phineas Finn was instructed by the Duke as
to the answer that was to be given. The Duke of Omnium in giving
these instructions made a mystery of the matter which he by no
means himself intended. But he was so sore that he could not be
simple in what he said. 'Mr Finn,' he said, 'you must promise me
this;--that the name of the Duchess shall not be mentioned.'
'Certainly not by me, if you will tell me that I am not to
mention it.'
'No one else can do so. The matter will take the form of a
simple question, and though the conduct of the minister may no
doubt be made the subject of debate,--and it is not improbable
that any conduct may do so in this instance,--it is, I think,
impossible that any member should make an allusion to my wife.
The privilege or power of returning a member for the borough has
undoubtedly been exercised by our family since as well as
previous to both the Reform Bills. At the last election I
thought it right to abandon that privilege, and notified to those
about my intention. But that which a man has the power of doing
he cannot always do without interference of those around him.
There was a misconception, and among my,--my adherents,--there
were some who injudiciously advised Mr Lopez to stand on my
interest. But he did not get my interest, and was beaten;--and
therefore when he asked me for the money which he had spent, I
paid it to him. That is all. I think the House can hardly avoid
to see that my effort was made to discontinue an unconstitutional
proceeding.'
Sir James Deering asked the question. 'He trusted,' he said,
'that the House would not think that the question of which he had
given notice and which he was about to ask was instigated by any
personal desire on his part to inquire into the conduct of the
Prime Minister. He was one who believed that the Duke of Omnium
was as little likely as any man in England to offend by
unconstitutional practice on his own part. But a great deal had
been talked and written lately about the late election at
Silverbridge, and there were those who thought,--and he was one
of them,--that something should be said to stop the mouths of
cavillers. With this object he would ask the Right Honourable
Gentleman who led the House, and who was perhaps first in
standing among the Duke's colleagues in that House, whether the
noble Duke was prepared to have any statement on the subject
made.'
The house was full to the very corners of the galleries. Of
course it was known to everybody that the question was to be
asked and to be answered. There were some who thought the matter
was so serious that the Prime Minister could not get over it.
Others had heard the details in the clubs that Lady Glen, as the
Duchess was still called, was to be made the scapegoat. Men of
all classes were open-mouthed in the denunciation and meanness of
Lopez--though no one but Mr Wharton knew half his villainy, as
he alone knew that the expenses had been paid twice over. In one
corner of the reporter's gallery sat Mr Slide, pencil in hand,
prepared to revert to his old work on so momentous an occasion.
It was a great day for him. He by his own unassisted energy had
brought the Prime Minister to book, and had created all this
turmoil. It might be his happy lot to be the means of turning
the Prime Minister out of office. It was he who had watched over
the nation! The Duchess had been most anxious to be present,--
but had not ventured to come without asking her husband's leave,
which he had most peremptorily refused to give. 'I cannot
understand, Glencora, how you can suggest such a thing,' he had
said.
'You make so much of everything,' she had replied petulantly; but
she had remained at home. The ladies' gallery was, however,
quite full. Mrs Finn was there, of course, anxious not only for
her friend, but eager to hear how her husband would acquit
himself in his task. The wives and daughters of all the
ministers were there,--excepting the wife of the Prime Minister.
There never had been, in the memory of them all, a matter that
was so interesting to them for it was the only matter they
remembered in which a woman's conduct might probably be called
into question in the House of Commons. And the seats
appropriated to peers were so crammed that above a dozen grey-
headed old lords were standing in the passage which divides them
from the common strangers. After all it was not, in truth, much
of an affair. A very little man indeed had calumniated the
conduct of a minister of the Crown, till it had been thought well
that the minister should defend himself. No one really believed
that the Duke had committed any great offence. At the worst it
was no more than indiscretion, which was noticeable only because
a Prime Minister should never be indiscreet. Had the taxation of
the whole country for the next year been in dispute there would
have been no such interest felt. Had the welfare of the Indian
Empire occupied the House, the House would have been empty. But
the hope that a certain woman's name would have to be mentioned,
crammed it from floor to ceiling.
The reader need not be told that the name was not mentioned. Our
old friend Phineas, on rising to his legs, first apologized for
doing so in place of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. But
perhaps the House would accept a statement from him, as
the noble Duke at the head of the Government had asked him to
make it. Then he made his statement. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'no
falser accusation than this had ever been brought forward against
a Minister of the Crown, for it specially charged his noble
friend with resorting to the employment of unconstitutional
practices to bolster up his parliamentary support, whereas it was
known by everybody that there would have been no matter for
accusation at all had not the Duke of his own motion abandoned a
recognized privilege, because, in his opinion, the exercise of
that privilege was opposed to the spirit of the Constitution.
Had the noble Duke simply nominated a candidate, as candidate had
been nominated at Silverbridge for centuries past, that candidate
would have been returned with absolute certainty, and there would
have been no word spoken on the subject. It was not, perhaps,
for him, who had the honour of serving under his Grace, and who,
as being part of his Grace's Government, was for the time one
with his Grace, to expiate at length on the nobility of the
sacrifice here made. But they all knew there at what rate was
valued a seat in that House. Thank God that privilege which his
noble friend had so magnanimously resigned from purely patriotic
motives, was, he believed, still in existence, and he would ask
those few who were still in the happy, or perhaps, he had better
say in the envied position of being able to send their friends to
that House, what was their estimation of the conduct of the Duke
in this matter? It might be that there were one or two such
present, and who now heard him,--or perhaps, one or two who owed
their seats to the exercise of such a privilege. They might
marvel at the magnitude of the surrender. They might even
question the sagacity of the man who could abandon so much
without a price. But he hardly thought that even they would
regard it as unconstitutional.
'This was what the Prime Minister had done,--acting not as Prime
Minister, but as an English gentleman, in the management of his
own property and privileges. And now he would come to the gist
of the accusation made; in making which, the thing which the Duke
had really done had been altogether ignored. When the vacancy
had been declared by the acceptance of the Chiltern Hundreds by a
gentleman whose absence from the House they all regretted, the
Duke had signified to his agents his intention of retiring
altogether from the exercise of any privilege or power in the
matter. But the Duke was then, as he was also now, and would, it
was to be hoped, long continue to be Prime Minister of England.
He need hardly remind gentlemen in that House that the Prime
Minister was not in a position to devote his undivided time to
the management of his own property, or even to the interests of
the Borough of Silverbridge. That his Grace had been earnest in
his instructions to his agents, the sequel fully proved; but that
earnestness his agents had misinterpreted.'
Then there was a voice heard in the House, 'What agents?' and
from another voice, 'Name them.' For there were present some who
thought it to be shameful that the excitement of the occasion
should be lowered by keeping back the allusion to the Duchess.
'I have not distinguished,' said Phineas, assuming an indignant
tone, 'the honourable gentlemen from whom those questions have
come, and therefore I have the less compunction in telling them
that it is not part of my duty on this occasion to gratify a
morbid and an indecent curiosity.' Then there was a cry of
'Order', and an appeal to the Speaker. Certain gentlemen wished
to know whether indecent was parliamentary. The Speaker, with
some hesitation, expressed his opinion that the word, as then
used, was not open to objection from him. He thought that it was
within the scope of a member's rights to charge another member
with indecent curiosity. 'If,' said Phineas, rising again to his
legs, for he had sat down for a moment, 'the gentleman who called
for a name will rise in his place and repeat the demand, I will
recall the word indecent and substitute another,--or others. I
will tell him that he is one who, regardless of the real conduct
of the Prime Minister, either as a man or as a servant of the
Crown, is only anxious to inflict unmanly wound in order that he
may be gratified by seeing the pain he inflicts.' Then he
paused, but as no further question was asked, he continued his
statement. 'A candidate had been brought forward,' he said, 'by
those interested in the Duke's affairs. A man whom he would not
name, but who, he trusted, would never succeed in his ambition to
occupy a seat in that House, had been brought forward, and
certain tradesmen in Silverbridge had been asked to support him
as the Duke's nominee. There was no doubt about it. The House
perhaps could understand that the local adherents and neighbours
of a man so high in rank and wealth as the Duke of Omnium would
not gladly see the privileges of their lord diminished. Perhaps,
too, it occurred to them that a Prime Minister could not have his
eye everywhere. There would always be worthy men in boroughs who
liked to exercise some second-hand authority. At any rate it was
the case that this candidate was encouraged. Then the Duke had
heard it, and had put his foot upon the little mutiny, and had
stamped it out at once. He might perhaps here,' he said,
'congratulate the House on the acquisition it had received, by
the failure of that candidate. So far, at any rate,' he thought,
'it must be admitted that the Duke had been free from blame;--
but now he came to the gravamen of the charge.' The gravamen of
the charge is so well known to the reader that the simple account
of it by Phineas gave of it need not be repeated. The Duke had
paid the money, when asked for it, because he felt that the man
had been injured by incorrect misrepresentations made to him. 'I
need hardly pause to stigmatize the meanness of that
application,' said Phineas, 'but I may perhaps conclude by saying
that whether the last act done by the Duke in this matter was or
was not indiscreet, I shall probably have the House with me when
I say that it savours much more strongly of nobility than
indiscretion.'
When Phineas Finn sat down no one arose to say another word on
the subject. It was afterwards felt that it could only have been
graceful had Sir Orlando risen and expressed his opinion that the
House had heard the statement just made with perfect
satisfaction. But he did not do so, and after a short pause the
ordinary business of the day was recommenced. Then there was a
speedy descent from the galleries, and the ladies trooped out of
their cage, and the grey-headed old peers went back to their own
chamber, and the members themselves quickly jostled out through
the doors, and Mr Monk was left to explain his proposed
alteration in the dog tax to a thin House of seventy or eighty
members.
The thing was then over, and people were astonished that so great
a thing should be over with so little fuss. It really seemed
that after Phineas Finn's speech there was nothing more to be
said on the matter. Everybody of course knew that the Duchess
had been the chief of the agents to whom he had alluded, but they
had known as much as that before. It was, however, felt by
everybody that the matter had been brought to an end. The game,
such as it was, had been played out. Perhaps the only person who
heard Mr Finn's speech throughout, and still hoped that the spark
could be again fanned into a flame, was Quintus Slide. He went
out and wrote another article about the Duchess. If a man was so
unable to rule his affairs at home, he was certainly unfit to be
Prime Minister. But even Quintus Slide, as he wrote his article,
felt that he was hoping against hope. The charge might be
referred to hereafter as one that had never been satisfactorily
cleared up. The game is always open to the opponents of a
minister. After the lapse of a few months an old accusation can
be serviceably used, whether at the time it was proved or
disproved. Mr Slide published his article; but he felt that for
the present the Silverbridge election papers had better be put by
among the properties of the "People's Banner" and brought out, if
necessary, for further use at some future time.
'Mr Finn,' said the Duke, 'I feel indebted to you for the trouble
you have taken.'
'It was only a pleasant duty.'
'I am grateful to you for the manner in which it was performed.'
This was all the Duke said, and Phineas felt it to be cold. The
Duke, in truth, was grateful, but gratitude with him always
failed to exhibit itself readily. From the world at large
Phineas Finn received great praise for the manner in which he had
performed his task.
CHAPTER 58
'QUITE SETTLED.'
The abuse which was now publicly heaped on the name of Ferdinand
Lopez hit the man very hard; but not so hard perhaps as his
rejection by Lady Eustace. That was an episode in his life of
which even he felt ashamed, and of which he was unable to shake
the disgrace from his memory. He had no inner appreciation
whatsoever of what was really good or was what really bad in a
man's conduct. He did not know that he had done evil in applying
to the Duke for money. He had only meant to attack the Duke; and
when the money had come it had been regarded as justifiable prey.
And when after receiving the Duke's money, he had kept also Mr
Wharton's money, he had justified himself again by reminding
himself that Mr Wharton certainly owed him much more than that.
In a sense he was what is called a gentleman. He knew how to
speak, and how to look, how to use a knife and fork, how to dress
himself, and how to walk. But he had not the faintest notion of
the feelings of a gentleman. He had, however, a very keen
conception of the evil of being generally ill spoken of. Even
now, though he was making his mind up to leave England for a long
term of years, he understood the disadvantage of leaving it under
so heavy a cloud;--and he understood also that the cloud might
possibly impede his going altogether. Even in Coleman Street
they were looking black upon him, and Mr Hartlepod went so far as
to say to Lopez himself, that, 'by Jove, he had put his foot in
it.' He had endeavoured to be courageous under his burden, and
every day walked into the offices of the Mining Company,
endeavouring to look as though he had committed no fault of which
he had to be ashamed. But after the second day he found that
nothing was said to him of the affairs of the Company, and on the
fourth day Mr Hartlepod informed him that the time allowed for
paying up his shares had passed by, and that another local
manager would be appointed. 'The time is not over till to-
morrow,' said Lopez angrily. 'I tell you what I am told to tell
you,' said Mr Hartlepod. 'You will only waste your time by
coming here any more.'
He had not once seen Mr Wharton since the statement made in the
Parliament, although he had lived in the same house with him.
Everett Wharton had come home, and they two had met;--but the
meeting had been stormy. 'It seems to me, Lopez, that you are a
scoundrel,' Everett said to him one day, after having heard the
whole story,--or rather many stories,--from his father. This
took place not in Manchester Square, but at the club, where
Everett had endeavoured to cut his brother-in-law. It need
hardly be said that at this time Lopez was not popular at his
club. On the next day a meeting of the whole club was to be held
that the propriety of expelling him might be discussed. But he
had resolved that he would not be cowed, that he would still show
himself, and still defend his conduct. He did not know, however,
that Everett Wharton had already made known to the Committee of
the club all the facts of the double payment.
He had addressed Everett in that solicitude to which a man should
never be reduced of seeking to be recognized by at any rate one
acquaintance,--and now his brother-in-law had called him a
scoundrel in the presence of other men. He raised his arm as
though to use the cane in his hand, but he was cowed by the
feeling that all there were his adversaries. 'How dare you use
that language to me!' he said very weakly.
'It is the language I must use if you speak to me.'
'I am your brother-in-law, and that restrains me.'
'Unfortunately you are.'
'And am living in your father's house.'
'That, again, is a misfortune which it appears difficult to
remedy. You have been told to go, and you won't go.'
'Your ingratitude, sir, is marvellous! Who saved your life when
you were attacked in the park, and were too drunk to take care of
yourself? Who has stood your friend with your close-fisted old
father when you have lost money at play that you could not pay?
But you are one of those who would turn away from any benefactor
in his misfortune.'
'I must certainly turn away from a man who has disgraced himself
as you have done,' said Everett, leaving the room. Lopez threw
himself into an easy-chair, and rang the bell loudly for a cup of
coffee, and lit a cigar. He had not been turned out of the club
as yet, and the servant at any rate was bound to attend to him.
That night he waited up for his father-in-law in Manchester
Square. He would certainly go to Guatemala now,--if it were not
too late. He would go though he were forced to leave his wife
behind him, and thus surrender any further hope for money from Mr
Wharton beyond the sum which he would receive as the price of his
banishment. It was true that the fortnight allowed to him by the
Company was only at an end that day, and that, therefore, the
following morning might be taken as the last day named for the
payment of the money. No doubt, also, Mr Wharton's bill at a few
days' date would be accepted if that gentleman could not at the
moment give a cheque for so large a sum as was required. And the
appointment had been distinctly promised to him with no other
stipulation than that the money required for the shares should be
paid. He did not believe in Mr Hartlepod's threat. It was
impossible, he thought, that he should be treated in so infamous
a manner merely because he had had his election expenses repaid
him by the Duke of Omnium! He would, therefore, ask for the
money, and--renounce the society of his wife.
As he made this resolve, something like real love returned to his
heart, and he became for a while sick with regret. He assured
himself that he had loved her, and that he could love her still;
--but why had she not been true to him? Why had she clung to her
father instead of clinging to her husband? Why had she not
learnt his ways,--as a wife is bound to learn the ways of the
man she marries? Why had she not helped him in his devices,
fallen into his plans, been regardful of his fortunes, and made
herself one with him? There had been present to him at times an
idea that if he could take her away with him to that distant
country to which he thought to go, and thus remove her from the
upas influence of her father's roof-tree, she would then fall
into his views and become his wife indeed. Then he would again
be tender to her, again love her, again endeavour to make the
world soft to her. But it was too late now for that. He had
failed in everything as far as England was concerned, and it was
chiefly by her fault that he had failed. He would consent to
leave her;--but, as he thought of it in solitude, his eyes
became moist with regret.
In these days Mr Wharton never came home till about midnight, and
then passed rapidly through the hall to his own room,--and in
the morning had his breakfast brought to him in the same room, so
that he might not even see his son-in-law. His daughter would go
to him when at breakfast, and there, together for some half-hour,
they would endeavour to look forward to their future fate. But
hitherto they had never been able to look forward in accord, as
she still persisted in declaring that if her husband bade her to
go with him,--she would go. On this night Lopez sat up in the
dining-room, and as soon as he heard Mr Wharton's key in the
door, he placed himself in the hall. 'I wish to speak to you to-
night, sir,' he said. 'Would you object to come in for a few
moments?' Then Mr Wharton followed him into the room. 'As we
live now,' continued Lopez, 'I have not had much opportunity of
speaking to you, even on business.'
'Well, sir; you can speak now,--if you have anything to say.'
'The 5,000 pounds you promised me must be paid to-morrow. It is
the last day.'
'I promised it only on certain conditions. Had you complied with
them the money would have been paid before.'
'Just so. The conditions were very hard, Mr Wharton. It
surprises me that such a one as you should think it right to
separate a husband from his wife.'
'I think it right, sir, to separate my daughter from such a one
as you are. I thought so before, but I think so doubly now. If
I can secure your absence in Guatemala by the payment of this
money, and if you will give me a document that shall be prepared
by Mr Walker and signed by yourself, assuring your wife that you
will not hereafter call upon her to live with you, the money
shall be paid.'
'All that will take time, Mr Wharton.'
'I will not pay a penny without it. I can meet you at the office
in Coleman Street to-morrow, and doubtless they will accept my
written assurance to pay the money as soon as those stipulations
shall be complied with.'
'That would disgrace me in the office, Mr Wharton.'
'And are you not disgraced there already? Can you tell me that
they have not heard of your conduct in Coleman Street, or that
hearing it they disregard it?' His son-in-law stood frowning at
him, but did not at the moment say a word. 'Nevertheless, I will
meet you there if you please, at any time that you may name, and
if they do not object to employ such a man as their manager, I
shall not object on their behalf.'
'To the last you are hard and cruel to me,' said Lopez;--'but I
will meet you at Coleman Street at eleven to-morrow.' Then Mr
Wharton left the room, and Lopez was there alone amidst the gloom
of the heavy curtains and the dark paper. A London dining-room
at night is always dark, cavernous, and unlovely. The very
pictures on the walls lacked brightness, and the furniture is
black and heavy. This room was large, but old-fashioned and very
dark. Here Lopez walked up and down after Mr Wharton had left
him, trying to think how far Fate and how far he himself were
responsible for his present misfortunes. No doubt he had begun
the world well. His father had been little better than a
travelling pedlar, but had made some money by selling jewellery,
and had educated his son. Lopez could on no score impute blame
to his father for what had happened to him. And, when he thought
of the means at his disposal in his early youth, he felt that he
had a right to boast of some success. He had worked hard, and
had won his way upwards, and had almost lodged himself securely
among those people with whom it had been his ambition to live.
Early in life he had found himself among those who were called
gentlemen and ladies. He had been able to assume their manners,
and had lived with them on equal terms. When thinking of his
past life he never forgot to remind himself that he had been a
guest at the house of the Duke of Omnium! And yet how far was it
with him now? He was penniless. He was rejected by his father-
in-law. He was feared, and, as he thought, detested, by his
wife. He was expelled from his club. He was cut by his old
friends. And he had been told very plainly by the Secretary in
Coleman Street that his presence there was no longer desired.
What should he do with himself if Mr Wharton's money were now
refused, and if the appointment in Guatemala were denied to him?
And then he thought of Sexty Parker and his family. He was not
naturally an ill-natured man. Though he could upbraid his wife
for alluding to Mrs Parker's misery, declaring that Mrs Parker
must take the rubs of the world just as others took them, still
the misfortunes which he had brought on her and on her children
did add something to the weight of his own misfortunes. If he
could not go to Guatemala, what should he do with himself;--
where should he go? Thus he walked up and down the room for an
hour. Would not a pistol or a razor give him the best solution
for all his difficulties?
On the following morning he kept his appointment at the office in
Coleman Street, as did Mr Wharton also. The latter was there
first by some minutes, and explained to Mr Hartlepod that he had
come there to meet his son-in-law. Mr Hartlepod was civil, but
very cold. Mr Wharton saw at the first glance that the services
of Ferdinand Lopez were no longer in request by the San Juan
Mining Company; but he sat down and waited. Now that he was
there, however painful the interview would be, he would go
through it. At ten minutes past eleven he made up his mind that
he would wait until the half hour,--and then go, with the fixed
resolution that he would never willingly spend another shilling
on behalf of that wretched man. But at a quarter past eleven the
wretched man came,--swaggering into the office, though it had
not, hitherto, been his custom to swagger. But misfortune
masters all but the great men, and upsets her best-learned lesson
of even a long life. 'I hope I have not kept you waiting, Mr
Wharton. Well, Hartlepod, how are you to-day? So this little
affair is going to be settled at last, and now these shares shall
be bought and paid for.' Mr Wharton did not say a word, not even
rising from his chair, or greeting his son-in-law by a word. 'I
dare say Mr Wharton has already explained himself,' said Lopez.
'I don't know that there is any necessity,' said Mr Hartlepod.
'Well,--I suppose it's simple enough,' continued Lopez. 'Mr
Wharton, I believe I am right in saying that you are ready to pay
the money at once.'
'Yes;--I am ready to pay the money as soon as I am assured that
you are on your route to Guatemala. I will not pay a penny till
I know that as a fact.'
The Mr Hartlepod rose from his seat and spoke. 'Gentlemen,' he
said, 'the matter within the last few days has assumed a
different complexion.'
'As how?' exclaimed Lopez.
'The Directors have changed their mind as to sending out Mr Lopez
as their local manager. The Directors intend to appoint another
gentleman. I had already acquainted Mr Lopez with the Directors'
intention.'
'Then the matter is settled?' said Mr Wharton.
'Quite settled,' said Mr Hartlepod.
As a matter of course Lopez began to fume and to be furious.
What!--after all that had been done, and the Directors mean to
go back from their word? After he had been induced to abandon
his business in his own country, was he to be thrown over in that
way? If the Company intended to treat him like that, the Company
would very soon hear from him. Thank God there were laws in the
land. 'Yesterday was the last day fixed for the payment of the
money,' said Mr Hartlepod.
'It is at any rate certain that Mr Lopez is not to go to
Guatemala?' asked Mr Wharton.
'Quite certain,' said Mr Hartlepod. Then Mr Wharton rose from
his chair and quitted the room.
'By G--, you have ruined me among you,' said Lopez;--'ruined me in
the most shameful manner. There is no mercy, no friendship, no
kindness, no forbearance anywhere! Why am I to be treated in
this manner?'
'If you have any complaint to make,' said Mr Hartlepod, 'you
had better write to the Directors. I have nothing to do but
my duty.'
'By heavens, the Directors shall hear of it!' said Lopez as he
left the office.
Mr Wharton went to his chambers and endeavoured to make up his
mind what step he must now take in reference to this dreadful
incubus. Of course he could turn the man out of his house, but
in so doing it might well be that he would also turn out his own
daughter. He believed Lopez to be utterly without means, and a
man so destitute would generally be glad to be relieved from the
burden of his wife's support. But this man would care nothing
for his wife's comfort; nothing even, as Mr Wharton believed, for
his wife's life. He would simply use his wife as best he might
as a means for obtaining money. There was nothing to be done but
to buy him off, by so much money down and by so much at stated
intervals as long as he should keep away. Mr Walker must manage
it, but it was quite clear to Mr Wharton that the Guatemala
scheme was altogether at an end. In the meantime a certain sum
must be offered to the man at once, on condition that he would
leave the house and do so without taking his wife with him.
So far Mr Wharton had a plan, and a plan that was at least
feasible. Wretched as he was, miserable, as he thought the fate
which had befallen his daughter,--there was still a prospect of
some relief. But Lopez as he walked out of the office had nothing
to which he could look for comfort. He slowly made his way to
Little Tankard Yard and there he found Sexty Parker balancing
himself on the back legs of his chair, with a small decanter of
public-house sherry before him. 'What; you here?' he said.
'Yes;--I have come to say good-bye.'
'Where are you going then? You shan't start to Guatemala if I
know it.'
'That's all over, my boy,' said Lopez, smiling.
'What is it you mean?' said Sexty, sitting square on his chair
and looking very serious.
'I am not going to Guatemala or anywhere else. I though I'd just
look in to tell you that I'm done for,--that I haven't a hope of
a shilling now or hereafter. You told me the other day that I
was afraid to come here. You see that as soon as anything is
fixed, I come and tell you everything at once.'
'What is fixed?'
'That I am ruined. That there isn't a penny to come from any
source.'
'Wharton has got money,' said Sexty.
'And there is money in the Bank of England,--but I cannot get at
it.'
'What are you going to do, Lopez?'
'Ah; that's the question. What am I going to do? I can say
nothing about that, but I can say, Sexty, that our affairs are at
an end. I'm very sorry for it, old boy. We ought to have made
fortunes, but we didn't. As far as the work went, I did my best.
Good-bye, old fellow. You'll do well some of these days yet, I
don't doubt. Don't teach the bairns to curse me. As for Mrs P.
I have not hope there, I know.' Then he went, leaving Sexty
Parker quite aghast.
CHAPTER 59
THE FIRST AND THE LAST.
When Mr Wharton was in Coleman Street, having his final interview
with Mr Hartlepod, there came a visitor to Mrs Lopez in
Manchester Square. Up to this date there had been great doubt
with Mr Wharton whether at last the banishment to Guatemala would
become a fact. From day to day his mind had changed. It had
been an infinite benefit that Lopez should go, if he could be got
to go alone, but as great an evil if at last he should take his
wife with him. But the father had never dared to express these
doubts to her, and she had taught herself to think that absolute
banishment with a man whom she certainly no longer loved, was the
punishment she had to pay for the evil she had done. It was now
March, and the second or third of April had been fixed for her
departure. Of course, she had endeavoured from time to time to
learn all that was to be learned from her husband. Sometimes he
would be almost communicative to her; at other times she could
hardly get a word from him. But, through it all, he gave her to
believe that she would have to go. Nor did her father make any
great effort to turn his mind the other way. If it must be so,
of what use would be such false kindness on his part? She had
therefore gone to work to make her purchases, studying that
economy which must henceforth be the great duty of her life, and
reminding herself as to everything she bought that it would have
to be worn with tears and used in sorrow.
And then she sent a message to Arthur Fletcher. It so happened
that Sir Alured Wharton was up in London at this time with his
daughter Mary. Sir Alured did not come to Manchester Square.
There was nothing the old baronet could say in the midst of all
this misery,--no comfort that he could give. It was well known
now to all the Whartons and the Fletchers that this Lopez, who
had married her who was to have been the pearl of the two
families, had proved himself to be a scoundrel. The two old
Whartons met no doubt at some club, or perhaps the Stone
Buildings, and spoke some few bitter words to each other; but Sir
Alured did not see the unfortunate young woman who had disgraced
herself by so wretched a marriage. But Mary came, and by her a
message was sent to Arthur Fletcher. 'Tell him that I am going,'
said Emily. 'Tell him not to come, but give him my love. He was
always one of my kindest friends.'
'Why;--why;--why did you not take him?' said Mary, moved by the
excitement of the moment to suggestions which were quite at
variance with the fixed propriety of her general idea.
'Why should you speak of that?' said the other. 'I never speak
of him,--never think of him. But, if you see him, tell him what
I say.' Arthur Fletcher was of course in the Square on the
following day,--on that very day on which Mr Wharton learned
that, whatever might be his daughter's fate, she would not, at
any rate, be taken to Guatemala. They two had never met since
the day on which they had been brought together for a moment at
the Duchess's party at Richmond. It had of course been
understood by both of them that they were not to be allowed to
see each other. Her husband had made a pretext of an act of
friendship on his part to establish a quarrel, and both of them
had been bound by that quarrel. When a husband declares that his
wife shall not know a man, that edict must be obeyed,--or, if
disobeyed, must be subverted by intrigue. In this case there had
been no inclination to intrigue on either side. The order had
been obeyed, and as far as the wife was concerned, had been only
a small part of the terrible punishment which had come upon her
as a result of her marriage. But, now, when Arthur Fletcher had
sent up his name, she did not hesitate as to seeing him. No
doubt she had thought it probable that she might see him when she
gave her message to her cousin.
'I could not let you go without coming to you,' he said.
'It is very good of you. Yes;--I suppose we are going.
Guatemala sounds a long way off, Arthur, does it not? But they
tell me it is a beautiful country.' She spoke with a cheerful
voice, almost as though she liked the idea of her journey; but he
looked at her with beseeching, anxious, sorrow-laden eyes.
'After all, what is a journey of a few weeks? Why should I not
be as happy in Guatemala as in London? As to friends, I do not
know that it will make much difference,--except papa.'
'It seems to me to make a difference,' said he.
'I never see anybody now,--neither your people, nor the Wharton
Whartons. Indeed, I see nobody. If it were not for papa I
should be glad to go. I am told that it is a charming country.
I have not found Manchester Square very charming. I am inclined
to think that all the world is very much alike, and that it does
not matter very much where one lives,--or, perhaps, what one
does. But at any rate I am going, and I am very glad to be able
to say good-bye to you before I start.' All this she said
rapidly, in a manner unlike herself. She was forcing herself to
speak so that she might save herself, if possible, from breaking
down in his presence.
'Of course I came when Mary told me.'
'Yes;--she was here. Sir Alured did not come. I don't wonder
at that, however. And your mother in town some time ago,--but I
didn't expect her to come. Why should they come? I don't know
whether you might not have better stayed away. Of course I am a
Pariah now; but Pariah as I am, I shall be as good as anyone else
in Guatemala. You have seen Everett since he has been in town,
perhaps?'
Yes;--I have seen him.'
'I hope they won't quarrel with Everett because of what I have
done. I have felt that more than all;--that both papa and he
have suffered because of it. Do you know, I think people are
hard. They might have thrown me off without being unkind to
them. It is that that has killed me, Arthur;--that they should
have suffered.' He sat looking at her, not knowing how to
interrupt her, or what to say. There was much that he meant to
say, but he did not know how to begin it, or how to frame his
words. 'When I am gone, perhaps it will be all right,' she
continued. 'When he told me that I was to go, that was my
comfort. I think I have taught myself to think nothing of
myself, to bear it all as a necessity, to put up with it,
whatever it may be, as men bear the thirst in the desert. Thank
God, Arthur, I have no baby to suffer with me. Here,--here, it
is still very bad. When I think of papa creeping in and out of
his house, I sometimes feel that I must kill myself. But our
going will put an end to all that. It is much better that we
should go. I wish we might start to-morrow.' Then she looked up
at him, and saw that tears were running down his face, and as she
looked she heard his sobs. 'Why should you cry, Arthur? He
never cries,--nor do I. When baby died I cried,--but very
little. Tears are vain, foolish things. It has to be borne, and
there is an end of it. When one makes up one's mind to that, one
does not cry. There was a poor woman her the other day whose
husband he had ruined. She wept and bewailed herself till I
pitied her almost more than myself;--but then she had children.'
'Oh, Emily!'
'You mustn't call me by my name, because he would be angry. I
have to do, you know, as he tells me. And I do so strive to do
it! Through it all I have an idea that if I do my duty it will
be better for me. There are things, you know, which a husband
may tell you to do, but you cannot do. If he tells me to rob, I
am not to rob;--am I? And now I think of it, you ought not to
be here. He would be very angry, much displeased. But it has
been so pleasant once more to see and old friend.'
'I care nothing for his anger,' said Arthur moodily.
'Ah, but I do. I have to care for it.'
'Leave him! Why don't you leave him?'
'What!'
'You cannot deceive me. You do not try to deceive me. You know
that he is altogether unworthy of you.'
'I will hear nothing of the kind, sir.'
'How can I speak otherwise when you yourself tell me of your own
misery? Is it possible that I should not know what he is? Would
you have me pretend to think well of him?'
'You can hold your tongue, Arthur.'
'No;--I cannot hold my tongue. Have I not held my tongue ever
since you married? And if I am to speak at all, must I not speak
now?'
'There is nothing to be said that can serve us at all.'
'Then it shall be said without serving. When I bid you leave
him, it is not that you may come to me. Though I love you better
than all the world put together, I do not mean that at all.'
'Oh, Arthur! Arthur!'
'But let your father save you. Only tell him that you will stay
with him, and he will do it. Though I should never see you
again, I could help protect you. Of course, I know,--and you
know. He is--a scoundrel!'
'I will not hear it,' said she rising from her seat on the sofa
with her hands up to her forehead, but still coming nearer to him
as she moved.
'Does not your father say the same thing? I will advise nothing
that he does not advise. I would not say a word to you that he
might not hear. I do love you, I have always loved you. But do
you think that I would hurt you with my love?'
'No;--no;--no!'
'No, indeed;--but I would have you feel that those who loved you
of old are still anxious for your welfare. You said just now
that you had been neglected.'
'I spoke of papa and Everett. For myself,--of course, I have
separated myself from everybody.'
'Never from me. You may be ten times his wife, but you cannot
separate yourself from me. Getting up in the morning and going
to bed at night I still tell myself that you are the one woman
that I love. Stay with us, and you shall be honoured,--as that
man's wife of course, but still as the dearest friend we have.'
'I cannot stay,' she said. 'He has told me that I am to go, and
I am in his hands. When you have a wife, Arthur, you will wish
her to do your bidding. I hope she will for your sake, without
that pain I have in doing it. Good-bye, dear friend.'
She put her hand out and he grasped it, and stood for a moment
looking at her. Then he seized her in his arms and kissed her
brow and her lips. 'Oh, Emily, why were you not my wife? My
darling, my darling!'
She had hardly extricated herself when the door opened, and Lopez
stood in the room. 'Mr Fletcher,' he said, very calmly, 'what is
the meaning of this?'
'He has come to bid me farewell,' said Emily. 'When going on so
long a journey one likes to see one's old friends,--perhaps for
the last time.' There was something of indifference to his anger
in her tone, and something also of scorn.
Lopez looked from one to the other, affecting an air of great
displeasure. 'You know, sir,' he said, 'that you cannot be
welcome here.'
'But he has been welcome,' said his wife.
'And I look upon your coming as a base act. You are here with
the intention of creating discord between me and my wife.'
'I am here to tell her that she has a friend to trust to, if she
ever wants a friend,' said Fletcher.
'And you think that such trust as that would be safer than trust
in her husband? I cannot turn you out of this house, sir,
because it does not belong to me, but I desire you to leave at
once the room which is occupied by my wife.' Fletcher paused a
moment to say good-bye to the poor woman, while Lopez continued
with increased indignation. 'If you do not go at once you will
force me to desire her to retire. She shall not remain in the
same room with you.'
'Good-bye, Mr Fletcher,' she said, again putting out her hand.
But Lopez struck it up, not violently, so as to hurt her, but
still with eager roughness. 'Not in my presence,' he said. 'Go,
sire, when I desire you.'
'God bless you, my friend,' said Arthur Fletcher. 'I pray that I
might live to see you back in the old country.'
'He was--kissing you,' said Lopez, as soon as the door was shut.
'He was,' said Emily.
'And you tell me so to my face, with such an air as that!'
'What am I to tell you when you ask me? I did not bid him kiss
me.'
'But afterwards you took his part as his friend.'
'Why not? I should lie to you if I pretended that I was angry
with him for what he did.'
'Perhaps you will tell me that you love him.'
'Of course I love him. There are different kinds of love,
Ferdinand. There is that which a woman gives to a man when she
would fain mate with him. It is the sweetest love of all, if it
would only last. And there is another love,--which is not
given, but which is won, perhaps through long years, by old
friends. I have none older than Arthur Fletcher, and none who
are dearer to me.'
'And you think it right that he should take you in his arms and
kiss you?'
'On such an occasion, I could not blame him.'
'You were ready enough to receive it, perhaps.'
'Well, I was. He has loved me well, and I shall never see him
again. He is very dear to me, and I was parting from him for
ever. It was the first and the last, and I did not grudge it to
him. You must remember, Ferdinand, that you are taking me across
the world from all my friends.'
'Psha,' he said, 'that is all over. You are not going anywhere
that I know of,--unless it be out onto the streets when your
father shuts his door on you.' And so saying he left the room
without another word.
CHAPTER 60
THE TENWAY JUNCTION.
And thus the knowledge was conveyed to Mrs Lopez that her fate in
life was not to carry her to Guatemala. At the very moment in
which she had been summoned to meet Arthur Fletcher she had been
busy with her needle preparing that almost endless collection of
garments necessary for a journey of many days at sea. And now
she was informed, by a chance expression, by a word aside, as it
were, that the journey was not to be made. 'That is all over,'
he had said,--and then had left her, telling her nothing
further. Of course she stayed her needle. Whether the last word
had been true or false, she could not work again, at any rate
till it had been contradicted. If it were so, what was to be her
fate? One thing was certain to her,--that she could not remain
under her father's roof. It was impossible that an arrangement
so utterly distasteful as the present one, both on to her father
and to herself, should be continued. But where then should they
live,--and of what nature would her life be should she be
separated from her father?
That evening she saw her father, and he corroborated her
husband's statement. 'It is all over now,' he said,--'that
scheme of his of going to superintend the mines. The mines don't
want him, and won't have him. I can't say I wonder at it.'
'What are we to do, papa?'
'Ah;--that I cannot say. I suppose he will condescend still to
honour me with his company. I do not know why he should wish to
go to Guatemala or elsewhere. He has everything here that he can
want.'
'You know, papa, that that is impossible.'
'I cannot say what with him is possible or impossible. He is
bound by none of the ordinary rules of mankind.'
That evening Lopez returned to his dinner at Manchester Square,
which was still regularly served for him and his wife, though the
servants who attended upon him did so under silent and oft-
repeated protest. He said not a word more as to Arthur Fletcher,
nor did her seek any ground of quarrel with his wife. But that
he continued melancholy and dejection made anything like good-
humour impossible, even on his part, he would have been good-
humoured. When they were alone, she asked him as to their future
destiny. 'Papa tells me you are not going,' she began saying.
'Did I not tell you so this morning?'
'Yes; you said so. But I did not know you were in earnest. Is
it all over?'
'All over;--I suppose.'
'I should have thought that you would have told me with more,--
more seriousness.'
'I don't know what you would have. I was serious enough. The
fact is, that your father has delayed so long the payment of the
promised money that the thing has fallen through of necessity. I
do not know that I can blame the Company.'
Then there was a pause. 'And now,' she said, 'what do you mean
to do?'
'Upon my word I cannot say. I am quite as much in the dark as
you can be.'
'That is nonsense, Ferdinand.'
'Thank you! Let it be nonsense if you will. It seems to me that
there is a great deal of nonsense going on in the world; but very
little of it as true as what I say now.'
'But it is your duty to know. Of course you cannot stay here.'
'Nor you, I suppose,--without me.'
'I am not speaking of myself. If you choose, I can remain here.'
'And--just throw me overboard altogether.'
'If you provide another home for me, I will go to it. However
poor it may be I will go to it, if you bid me. But for you,--of
course you cannot stay here.'
'Has your father told you to say so to me?'
'No;--but I can say so without his telling me. You are
banishing him from his own house. He has put up with it while he
thought that you were going to this foreign country; but there
must be an end of that now. You must have some scheme of life.'
'Upon my soul I have none.'
'You must have some intentions for the future.'
'None in the least. I have had intentions, and they have failed;
--from want of that support which I had a right to expect. I
have struggled and I have failed, and now I have got no
intention. What are yours?'
'It is not my duty to have any purpose, as what I do must depend
on your commands.' Then again there was a silence, during which
he lit a cigar, although he was sitting in the drawing-room.
This was a profanation of the room on which he had never ventured
before, but at the present moment she was unable to notice it by
any words. 'I must tell papa,' she said after a while, 'what our
plans are.'
'You can tell him what you please. I have literally nothing to
say to him. If he will settle an adequate income on us, payable
of course to me, I will go and live elsewhere. If he turns me
out in the street without provision, he must turn you out too.
That is all I have got to say. It will come better from you than
from me. I am sorry, of course, that things have gone wrong with
me. When I found myself the son-in-law of a very rich man I
thought that I might spread my wings a bit. But my rich father-
in-law threw me over, and now I am helpless. You are not very
cheerful, and I think I'll go down to the club.'
He went out of the house and did go down to the Progress. The
committee which was to be held with the view of judging whether
he was or was not a proper person to remain a member of that
assemblage had not yet been held, and there was nothing to impede
his entrance to the club, or the execution of the command which
he gave for tea and buttered toast. But no one spoke to him;
nor, though he affected a look of comfort, did he find himself
much at his ease. Among the members of the club there was a much
divided opinion whether he should be expelled or not. There was
a strong party who declared that his conduct socially, morally,
and politically, had been so bad that nothing short of expulsion
would meet the case. But there were others who said that no act
had been proved against him which the club ought to notice. He
had, no doubt, shown himself to be a blackguard, a man without a
spark of honour or honesty. But then,--as they said who thought
his position in the club to be unassailable,--what had the club
to do with that? 'If you turn out all the blackguards and all
the dishonourable men, where will the club be?' was a question
asked with a great deal of vigour by one middle-aged gentleman
who was supposed to know the club-world very thoroughly. He had
committed no offence which the law could recognize and punish,
nor had he sinned against the club rules. 'He is not required to
be a man of honour by any regulation of which I am aware,' said
the middle-aged gentleman. The general opinion seemed to be that
he should be asked to go, and that, if he declined, no one should
speak to him. This penalty was already inflicted on him, for on
the evening in question no one did speak to him.
He drank his tea and ate his toast and read a magazine, striving
to look as comfortable and as much at his ease as men at their
clubs generally are. He was not a bad actor, and those who saw
him and made reports as to his conduct on the following day
declared that he had apparently been quite indifferent to the
disagreeable incident of his position. But his indifference had
been mere acting. His careless manner with his wife had been all
assumed. Selfish as he was, void as he was of all principle,
utterly unmanly and even unconscious of the worth of manliness,
still he was alive to the opinions of others. He thought that
the world did not understand the facts of his case, and that the
world generally would have done as he had done in similar
circumstances. He did not know that there was such a quality as
honesty, nor did he understand what the word meant. But he did
know that some men, an unfortunate class, became subject to evil
report from others who were more successful, and he was aware
that he had become one of those unfortunates. Nor could he see
any remedy for his position. It was all blank and black before
him. It may be doubted whether he got much instruction or
amusement from the pages of the magazine which he turned.
At about twelve o'clock he left the club and took his way
homewards. But he did not go straight home. It was a nasty cold
March night, with a catching wind, and occasional short showers
of something between snow and rain,--as disagreeable a night for
a gentleman to walk in as one could well conceive. But he went
round by Trafalgar Square, and along the Strand, and up some
dirty streets by the small theatres, and so on to Holborn and by
Bloomsbury Square up to Tottenham Court Road, and then through
some unused street into Portland Place, along the Marylebone
Road, and back to Manchester Square by Baker Street. He had more
than doubled the distance,--apparently without any object. He
had been spoken to frequently by unfortunates of both sexes, but
had answered a word to no one. He had trudged on and on with his
umbrella over his head, but almost unconscious of the cold and
wet. And yet he was a man sedulously attentive to his own
personal comfort and health, who had at any rate shown this
virtue in his mode of living, that he had never subjected himself
to danger by imprudence. But now the working of his mind kept
him warm, and, if not dry, at least indifferent to the damp. He
had thrown aside with affected nonchalance those questions which
his wife had asked him, but still it was necessary that he should
answer them. He did not suppose that he could continue to live
in Manchester Square in his present condition. Nor, if it was
necessary that he should wander forth into the world, could he
force his wife to wander with him. If he would consent to leave
her, his father-in-law would probably give him something,--some
allowance on which he might exist. But then of what sort would be
his life?
He did not fail to remind himself over and over again that he had
nearly succeeded. He had been the guest of the Prime Minister,
and had been the nominee chosen by a Duchess to represent her
husband's borough in Parliament. He had been intimate with Mills
Happerton who was fast becoming a millionaire. He had married
much above himself in every way. He had achieved a certain
popularity and was conscious of intellect. But at the present
moment two or three sovereigns in his pocket were the extent of
his worldly wealth and his character was utterly ruined. He
regarded his fate as does a card-player who day after day holds
sixes and sevens when other men have aces and kings. Fate was
against him. He saw no reason why he should not have had he aces
and kings continually, especially as fate had given him perhaps
more than his share of them at first. He had, however, lost
rubber after rubber,--not paying his stakes for some of the last
rubbers lost,--till the players would play with him no longer.
The misfortune might have happened to any man;--but it had
happened to him. There was no beginning again. A possible small
allowance and some very retired and solitary life, in which there
would be no show of honour, no flattery coming to him, was all
that was left to him.
He let himself in at the house, and found his wife still awake.
'I am wet to the skin,' he said, 'I made up my mind to walk, and
I would do it;--but I am a fool for my pains.' She made him
some feeble answer, affecting to be half asleep, and merely
turned in her bed. 'I must be out early in the morning. Mind
you made them dry my things. They never do anything for my
telling.'
'You don't want them dried to-night?'
'Not to-night, of course;--but after I am gone to-morrow.
They'll leave them there without putting a hand to them, if you
don't speak. I must be off before breakfast to-morrow.'
'Where are you going? Do you want anything packed?'
'No; nothing. I shall be back for dinner. But I must go down to
Birmingham, to see a friend of Happerton's on business. I will
breakfast at the station. As you said to-day, something must be
done. If it's necessary to sweep a crossing, I must sweep it.'
As she lay awake while he slept, she thought that those last
words were the best she had heard from him since they were
married. There seemed to be some indication of purpose in them.
If he would only sweep a crossing as a man should sweep it, she
would stand by him, and at any rate do her duty to him, in spite
of all that had happened. Alas! she was not old enough to have
learned that a dishonest man cannot begin even to sweep a
crossing honestly till he have in very truth repented of his
former dishonesty. The lazy man may become lazy no longer, but
there must have been first a process through his mind whereby his
laziness has become odious to him. And that process can hardly
be the immediate result of misfortune arising from misconduct.
Had Lopez found his crossing at Birmingham he would hardly have
swept it well.
Early on the following morning he was up, and before he left his
room he kissed his wife. 'Good-bye, old girl,' he said, 'don't
be down-hearted.'
'If you have anything before you to do, I will not be down-
hearted,' she said.
'I shall have something to do before night, I think. Tell your
father, when you see him, that I shall not trouble him here much
longer. But tell him also, that I have no thanks to give him for
his hospitality.'
'I will not tell him that, Ferdinand.'
'He shall know it though. But I do not mean to be cross to you.
Good-bye, love.' Then he stooped over and kissed her again;--
and so he took his leave of her.
It was raining hard, and when he got into the street he looked
about for a cab, but there was none to be found. In Baker Street
he got an omnibus which took him down to the underground railway,
and by that he went to Gower Street. Through the rain he walked
up to the Euston Station, and there he ordered breakfast. Could
he have a mutton chop and some tea? And he was very particular
that the mutton chop should be well cooked. He was a good-
looking man, of fashionable appearance, and the young lady who
attended him noticed him and was courteous to him. He
condescended even to have a little light conversation with her,
and, on the whole, he seemed to enjoy his breakfast. 'Upon my
word. I should like to breakfast here every say of my life,' he
said. The young lady assured him that, as far as she could see,
there was no objection to such an arrangement. 'Only it's a
bore, you know, coming out in the rain when there are no cabs,'
he said. Then there were various little jokes between them, till
the young lady was quite impressed with the gentleman's pleasant
affability.
After a while he went back into the hall and took a first-class
return ticket not for Birmingham, but for the Tenway Junction, as
everybody knows it. From this spot, some six or seven miles
distant from London, lines diverge east, west, and north, north-
east, and north-west, round the metropolis in every direction,
and with direct communication with every other line in and out of
London. It is marvellous place, quite unintelligible to the
uninitiated, and yet daily used by thousands who only know that
when they get there, they are to do what someone tells them. The
space occupied by the convergent rails seems to be sufficient for
a large farm. And these rails always run into one another with
sloping points, and cross passages, and mysterious meandering
sidings, till it seems to the thoughtful stranger to be
impossible that the best-trained engine should know its own line.
Here and there and around there is ever a wilderness of waggons,
some loaded, some empty, some smoking with close-packed oxen, and
others furlongs in length black with coals, which look as though
they had been stranded there by chance, and were never destined
to get again into the right path of traffic. Not a minute passes
without a train going here or there, some rushing by without
noticing Tenway in the least, crashing through like flashes of
substantial lightning, and others stopping, disgorging and taking
up passengers by the hundreds. Men and women,--especially the
men, for the women knowing their ignorance are generally willing
to trust to the pundits of the place,--look doubtful, uneasy,
and bewildered. But they all do get properly placed and
unplaced, so that the spectator at last acknowledges that over
all this apparent chaos there is presiding a great genius of
order. From dusky morn to dark night, and indeed almost
throughout the night, the air is loaded with a succession of
shrieks. The theory goes that each separate shriek,--if there
can be any separation where the sound is so nearly continuous,--
is a separate notice to separate ears of the coming or going of a
separate train. The stranger, as he speculates on these
pandemoniac noises, is able to realize the idea that were they
discontinued the excitement necessary for the minds of the
pundits might be lowered, and that activity might be lessened,
and evil results might follow. But he cannot bring himself to
credit that theory of individual notices.
At Tenway Junction there are a half-a-dozen long platforms, on
which men and women and luggage are crowded. On one of these for
a while Ferdinand Lopez walked backwards and forwards as though
waiting for the coming of some especial train. The crowd is ever
so great that a man might be supposed to walk there from morning
to nigh without exciting special notice. But the pundits are
very clever, and have much experience in men and women. A well-
taught pundit, who has exercised authority for a year or two at
such a station as that of Tenway, will know within a minute of
the appearance of each stranger what is his purpose there,--
whether he be going or has just come, whether he is himself on
the way or waiting for others, whether he should be treated with
civility or with some curt command,--so that if his purport be
honest all necessary assistance may be rendered him. As Lopez
was walking up and down, with a smiling face and leisurely pace,
now reading an advertisement and now watching the contortions of
some amazed passenger, a certain pundit asked him his business.
He was waiting, he said, for a train from Liverpool, intending,
when his friend arrived, to go with him to Dulwich by a train
which went round the west of London. It was all feasible, and
the pundit told him that the stopping train from Liverpool was
due there in six minutes, but that the express from the north
would pass first. Lopez thanked the pundit and gave him
sixpence,--which made the pundit suspicious. A pundit hopes to
be paid when he handles luggage, but has no such expectation when
he merely gives information.
The pundit still had his eye on our friend when the shriek and
the whirr of the express from the north was heard. Lopez walked
quickly up towards the edge of the platform, when the pundit
followed him, telling him that this was not his train. Lopez
then ran a few yards along the platform, not noticing the man,
reaching a spot that was unoccupied:--and there he stood fixed.
And as he stood the express flashed by. 'I am fond of seeing
them pass like that,' said Lopez to the man who had followed him.
'But you shouldn't do it, sir,' said the suspicious pundit. 'No
one isn't allowed to stand near like that. The very hair of it
might take you off your legs when you're not used to it.'
'All right, old fellow,' said Lopez retreating. The next train
was the Liverpool train; and it seemed that our friend's friend
had not come, for when the Liverpool passengers had cleared
themselves off, he was still walking up and down the platform.
'He'll come by the next,' said Lopez to the pundit, who now
followed him about and kept an eye on him.
'There ain't another from Liverpool stopping here till the 2.20,'
said the pundit. 'You had better come again if you mean to meet
him by that.'
'He has come part of the way, and will reach this by some other
train,' said Lopez.
'There ain't nothing he can come by,' said the pundit.
'Gentlemen can't wait here all day, sir. The horders is against
waiting on the platform.'
'All right,' said Lopez, moving away as though to make exit
through the station.
Now, Tenway Junction is so big a place, and so scattered, that it
is impossible that all the pundits should by any combined
activity maintain to the letter the order of which our special
pundit had spoken. Lopez, departing from the platform which he
had hitherto occupied, was soon to be seen on another, walking up
and down, and again waiting. But the old pundit had his eye on
him, and had followed him round. At that moment there came a
shriek louder than all the other shrieks, and the morning express
down from Euston to Inverness was seen coming round the curve at
a thousand miles an hour. Lopez turned round and looked at it,
and again walked towards the edge of the platform but now it was
not exactly the edge that he neared, but a descent to a pathway,
--an inclined plane leading down to the level of the rails, and
made there for certain purposes of traffic. As he did so the
pundit called to him, and then made a rush at him,--for our
friend's back was turned to the coming train. But Lopez heeded
not the call, and the rush was too late. With quick, but still
with gentle and apparently unhurried steps, he walked down before
the flying engine--and in a moment had been knocked into bloody
atoms.
VOLUME III
CHAPTER 61
THE WIDOW AND HER FRIENDS.
The catastrophe described in the last chapter had taken place
during the first week in March. By the end of that month old Mr
Wharton had probably reconciled himself to the tragedy, although
in fact it had affected him very deeply. In the first days after
the news had reached him he seemed to be bowed to the ground.
Stone Buildings were neglected, and the Eldon saw nothing of him.
Indeed, he barely left the house from which he had been so long
banished by the presence of his son-in-law. It seemed to
Everett, who now came to live with him and his sister, as though
his father was overcome by the horror of the affair. But after a
while he recovered himself, and appeared one morning in court
with his wig and gown, and argued a case,--which was now unusual
with him,--as though to show the world that a dreadful episode
in his life was passed, and should be thought of no more. At
this period, three or four weeks after the occurrence,--he
rarely spoke to his daughter about Lopez; but to Everett the
man's name would often be on his tongue. 'I do not know that
there could have been any other deliverance,' he said to his son
one day. 'I thought it would have killed me when I first heard
it, and it nearly killed her. But, at any rate, now there is
peace.'
But the widow seemed to feel it more as time went on. At first
she was stunned, and for a while absolutely senseless. It was
not till two days after the occurrence that the fact became known
to her,--not known as a certainty to her father and brother. It
seemed as though the man had been careful to carry with him no
record of identity, the nature of which would permit it to
outlive the crush of the train. No card was found, no scrap of
paper with his name; and it was discovered at last that when he
left the house on the fatal morning he had been careful to dress
himself in shirt and socks, with handkerchief and collar that had
been newly purchased for his proposed journey and which bore no
mark. The fragments of his body set identity at defiance, and
even his watch had been crumpled into ashes. Of course the fact
became certain with no great delay. The man himself was missing,
and was accurately described both by the young lady from the
refreshment room, and by the suspicious pundit who had actually
seen the thing done. There was first belief that it was so,
which was not communicated to Emily,--and then certainty.
There was an inquest held of course,--well, we will say on the
body,--and, singularly enough, great difference of opinion as to
the manner, though of course none as to the immediate cause of
the death. Had it been accidental, or premeditated? The pundit,
who in the performance of his duties on the Tenway platform was
so efficient and valuable, gave half-a-dozen opinions in half-a-
dozen minutes when subjected to the questions of the Coroner. In
his own mind he had not the least doubt in the world as to what
had happened. But he was made to believe that he was not to
speak his own mind. The gentleman, he said, certainly might have
walked down by accident. The gentleman's back was turned, and it
was possible that the gentleman did not hear the train. He was
quite certain that the gentleman knew of the train; but yet he
could not say. The gentleman walked down before the train
o'purpose; but perhaps he didn't mean to do himself an injury.
There was a deal of this, till the Coroner, putting all his wrath
into his brow, told the man that he was a disgrace to the
service, and expressed a hope that the Company would no longer
employ a man so evidently unfit for his position. But the man
was in truth a conscientious and useful pundit, with a large
family, and evident capabilities for his business. At last a
verdict was given,--that the man's name was Ferdinand Lopez,
that he had been crushed by an express train on the London and
North Western Line, and that there was no evidence to show how
his presence on the line had been occasioned. Of course, Mr
Wharton had employed counsel, and of course the counsel's object
had been to avoid a verdict of felo de se. Appended to the
verdict was a recommendation from the jury that the Railway
Company should be advised to signalize their express trains at
the Tenway Junction Station.
When these tidings were told to the widow she had already given
way to many fears. Lopez had gone, purporting, as he said,--to
be back to dinner. He had not come then, nor on the following
morning, nor had he written. Then she remembered all that he had
done and said;--how he had kissed her, and left a parting
malediction for her father. She did not at first imagine that he
had destroyed himself, but that he had gone away, intending to
vanish as other men before now had vanished. As she thought of
this something almost like love came back upon her heart. Of
course he was bad. Even in her sorrow, even when alarmed as to
his fate, she could not deny that. But her oath to him had not
been to love him only while he was good. She had made herself a
part of him, and was she not bound to be true to him, whether
good or bad? She implored her father and she implored her
brother to be ceaseless in their endeavours to trace him,--
sometimes seeming almost to fear that in this respect she could
not fully trust them. Then she discerned from their manner a
doubt as to her husband's fate. 'Oh, papa, if you think
anything, tell me what you think,' she said late on the evening
of the second day. He was then nearly sure that the man who had
been killed at Tenway was Ferdinand Lopez;--but he was not quite
sure, and he would not tell her. But on the following morning,
somewhat before noon, having himself gone out early to Euston
Square, he came back to his own house,--and then he told her
all. For the first hour she did not shed a tear or lose her
consciousness of the horror of the thing;--but sat still and
silent, gazing at nothing, casting back her mind over the history
of her life, and the misery which she had brought to all who
belonged to her. Then at last she gave way, fell into tears,
hysteric sobbings, convulsions so violent as for a time to take
the appearance of epileptic fits, and was at last exhausted and,
happily for herself, unconscious.
After that she was ill for many weeks,--so ill that at times
both her father and her brother thought that she would die. When
the first month or six weeks had passed by she would often speak
of her husband, especially to her father, and always speaking of
him as though she had brought him to his untimely fate. Nor
could she endure at this time that her father should say a word
against him, even when she obliged the old man to speak of one
whose conduct had been so infamous. It had all been her doing!
Had she not married him there would have been no misfortune! She
did not say that he had been noble, true, or honest,--but she
asserted that all the evils which had come upon him had been
produced by herself. 'My dear,' her father said to her one
evening, 'it is a matter which we cannot forget, but on which it
is well that we should be silent.'
'I shall always know what that silence means,' she replied.
'It will never mean condemnation of you by me,' said he.
'But I have destroyed your life,--and his, I know. I ought not
to have married him, because you bade me not. And I know that I
should have been gentler with him, and more obedient when I was
his wife. I sometimes wish that I were a Catholic, and that I
could go into a convent, and bury it all amidst sackcloths and
ashes.'
'That would not bury it,' said her father.
'But I should at least be buried. If I were out of sight, you
might forget it all.'
She once stirred Everett up to speak more plainly than her father
ever dared to do, and then also she herself used language that
was very plain. 'My darling,' said her brother once, when she
had been trying to make out that her husband had been more sinned
against than sinning,--'he was a bad man. It is better that the
truth should be said.'
'And who is a good man?' she said, raising herself in her bed and
looking at him full in the face with her deep-sunken eyes. 'If
there be any truth in our religion, are we not all bad? Who is
to tell the shades of difference of badness? He was not a
drunkard, or a gambler. Through it all he was true to his wife.'
She, poor creature, was ignorant of the little scene in the
little street near Mayfair, in which Lopez had offered to carry
Lizzie Eustace away with him to Guatemala. 'He was industrious.
His ideas about money were not the same as yours or papa's. How
was he worse than others? It happened that his faults were
distasteful to you--and so, perhaps, his virtues.'
'His faults, such as they were, brought all these miseries.'
'He would have been successful now if he had never seen me. But
why should we talk of it? We shall never agree. And you,
Everett, can never understand all that has passed through my mind
during the last two years.'
There were two or three persons who attempted to see her at this
period, but she avoided them all. First came Mrs Roby, who as
her nearest neighbour, as her aunt, and as an aunt who had been
so nearly allied to her, had almost a right to demand admittance.
But she would not see Mrs Roby. She sent down word to say that
she was too ill. And when Mrs Roby wrote to her, she got her
father to answer the note. 'You had better let it drop,' the old
man said at last to his sister-in-law. 'Of course she remembers
that it was you who brought them together.'
'But I didn't bring them together, Mr Wharton. How often am I to
tell you so? It was Everett brought Mr Lopez here.'
'The marriage was made up in your house, and it has destroyed me
and my child. I will not quarrel with my wife's sister if I can
help it, but at present you had better keep apart.' Then he had
left her abruptly, and Mrs Roby had not dared either to write or
call again.
At this time Arthur Fletcher saw both Everett and Mr Wharton
frequently, but he did not go to the Square, contenting himself
with asking whether he might be allowed to do so. 'Not yet,
Arthur,' said the old man. 'I am sure she thinks you one of her
best friends, but she could not see you yet.'
'She would have nothing to fear,' said Arthur. 'We knew each
other when we were children, and I should be now only as I was
then.'
'Not yet, Arthur, not yet,' said the barrister.
Then there came a letter, or rather two letters from Mary
Wharton;--one to Mr Wharton and the other to Emily. To tell the
truth as to these letters, they contained the combined wisdom and
tenderness of Wharton Hall and Longbarns. As soon as the fate of
Lopez had been ascertained and thoroughly discussed in
Hertfordshire, there went forth an edict that Emily had suffered
punishment sufficient and was to be forgiven. Old Mrs Fletcher
did not come to this at once,--having some deep-seated feeling
which she did not dare to express even to her son, though she
muttered it to her daughter-in-law, that Arthur would be
disgraced for ever if he were to marry the widow of such a man as
Ferdinand Lopez. But when this question of receiving Emily back
into family favour was mooted in the Longbarns Parliament no one
alluded to the possibility of such a marriage. There was the
fact that she whom they all had loved had been freed by a great
tragedy from the husband whom they all had condemned,--and also
the knowledge that the poor victim had suffered greatly during
the period of her married life. Mrs Fletcher had frowned, and
shaken her head, and made a little speech about the duties of
women, and the necessarily fatal consequences when those duties
are neglected. There were present there, with the old lady, John
Fletcher and his wife, Sir Alured and Lady Wharton, and Mary
Wharton. Arthur was not in the county, nor could the discussion
have been held in his presence. 'I can only say,' said John,
getting up and looking away from his mother, 'that she shall
always find a home at Longbarns when she chooses to come here,
and I hope Sir Alured will say the same as to Wharton Hall.'
After all, John Fletcher was king in these parts, and Mrs
Fletcher, with many noddings and some sobbing, had to give way to
King John. The end of all this was that Mary Wharton wrote her
letters. In that to Mr Wharton she asked whether it would not be
better that her cousin should change the scene and come at once
into the country. Let her come and stay a month at Wharton, then
go onto Longbarns. She might be sure that there would be no
company at either house. In June the Fletchers would go to town
for a week, and then Emily might return to Wharton Hall. It was
a long letter, and Mary gave many reasons why the poor sufferer
would be better in the country than in town. The letter to Emily
herself was shorter, but full of affection. 'Do, do do come.
You know how we all love you. Let it be as it used to be. You
always liked the country. I will devote myself to try and
comfort you.' But Emily could not as yet submit to receive
devotion even from her cousin Mary. Through it all, and under it
all,--though she would ever defend her husband because he was
dead,--she knew that she had disgraced the Whartons and brought
a load of sorrow upon the Fletchers, and she was too proud to be
forgiven so quickly.
Then she received another tender of affection from a quarter
whence she certainly did not expect it. The Duchess of Omnium
wrote to her. The Duchess, though she had lately been
considerably restrained by the condition of the Duke's mind, and
by the effects of her own political and social mistakes, still
from time to time made renewed efforts to keep together the
Coalition by giving dinners, balls, and garden parties, and by
binding to herself the gratitude and worship of young
parliamentary aspirants. In carrying out her plans, she had
lately showered her courtesies upon Arthur Fletcher, who had been
made welcome even by the Duke as the sitting member for
Silverbridge. With Arthur she had of course discussed the
conduct of Lopez as to the election bills, and had been very loud
in condemning him. And from Arthur also she had heard something
of the sorrows of Emily Lopez. Arthur had been very desirous
that the Duchess, who had received them both at her house, should
distinguish between the husband and the wife. Then had come the
tragedy, to which the notoriety of the man's conduct of course
gave additional interest. It was believed that Lopez had
destroyed himself because of the disgrace which had fallen upon
him from the Silverbridge affair. And for much of that
Silverbridge affair the Duchess herself was responsible. She
waited till a couple of months had gone by, and then, in the
beginning of May, sent to the widow what was intended to be, and
indeed was, a very kind note. The Duchess had heard the sad
story with the greatest grief. She hoped that Mrs Lopez would
permit her to avail herself of a short acquaintance to express
her sincere sympathy. She would not venture to call as yet, but
hoped that before long she might be allowed to come to Manchester
Square.
This note touched the poor woman to whom it was written, not
because she herself was solicitous to be acquainted with the
Duchess of Omnium, but because the application seemed to her to
contain something like an acquittal, or at any rate a pardon, of
her husband. His sin in that measure of the Silverbridge
election,--a sin which her father had been loud in denouncing
before the wretch had destroyed himself,--had been specially
against the Duke of Omnium. And now the Duchess came forward to
say that it should be forgiven and forgotten. When she showed
the letter to her father, and asked him what she should say in
answer to it, he only shook his head. 'It is meant for kindness,
papa.'
'Yes;--I think it is. There are people who have no right to be
kind to me. If a man stopped me in the street and offered me a
half-a-crown it might be kindness,--but I don't want the man's
half--crown.'
'I don't think it is the same, papa. There is a reason here.'
'Perhaps so, my dear, but I do not see the reason.'
She became very red, but even to him she would not explain her
ideas. 'I think I shall answer it.'
'Certainly answer it. Your compliments to the Duchess and thank
her for her kind inquiries.'
'But she says she will come here.'
'I should not notice that.'
'Very well, papa. If you think so, of course I will not.
Perhaps it would be an inconvenience, if she were really to
come.' On the next day she did write a note, not quite so cold
as that which her father proposed, but still saying nothing as to
the offered visit. She felt, she said, very grateful for the
Duchess's kind remembrance of her. The Duchess would perhaps
understand that at present her sorrow overwhelmed her.
And there was one other tender of kindness which was more
surprising than even that from the Duchess. The reader may
perhaps remember that Ferdinand Lopez and Lady Eustace had not
parted when they last saw each other on the pleasantest terms.
He had been very affectionate; but when he had proposed to devote
his whole life to her and to carry her off to Guatemala she had
simply told him that he was--a fool. Then he had escaped from
her house and had never again seen Lizzie Eustace. She had not
thought very much about it. Had he returned to her the next day
with some more tempting proposition for making money she would
have listened to him,--and had he begged her pardon for what had
taken place on the former day she would have merely laughed. She
was not more offended than she would have been had he asked her
for half her fortune instead of her person and her honour. But,
as it was, he had escaped and had never again shown himself in
the little street near May Fair. Then she had the tidings of his
death, first seeing the account in a very sensational article
from the pen of Mr Quintus Slide himself. She was immediately
filled with an intense interest which was infinitely increased by
the fact that the man had but a few days before declared himself
to be her lover. It was bringing her almost as near the event as
though she had seen it! She was, perhaps, entitled to think that
she had caused it! Nay;--in one sense she had caused it, for he
certainly would not have destroyed himself had she consented to
go with him to Guatemala or elsewhere. And she knew his wife.
An uninteresting, dowdy creature she had called her. But,
nevertheless, they had been in company together more than once.
So she presented her compliments, and expressed her sorrow, and
hoped that she might be allowed to call. There had been no one
for whom she had felt more sincere respect and esteem than for
her late friend Mr Ferdinand Lopez. To this note there was an
answer written by Mr Wharton himself.
MADAM,
My daughter is too ill to see even her own friends.
I am, Madam,
Your obedient servant
ABEL WHARTON
After this, life went on in a very quiet way at Manchester Square
for many weeks. Gradually Mrs Lopez recovered her capability of
attending to the duties of life. Gradually she became again able
to interest herself in her brother's pursuits and in her father's
comforts, and the house returned to its old form as it had been
before these terrible two years, in which the happiness of the
Wharton and Fletcher families had been marred, and scotched, and
almost destroyed for ever by the interference of Ferdinand Lopez.
But Mrs Lopez never for a moment forgot that she had done the
mischief,--and that the black enduring cloud had been created
solely by her own perversity and self-will. Though she would
still defend her late husband if any attack were made upon his
memory, not the less did she feel that hers had been the fault,
though the punishment had come upon them all.
CHAPTER 62
PHINEAS FINN HAS A BOOK TO READ.
The sensation created by the man's death was by no means confined
to Manchester Square, but was very general in the metropolis,
and, indeed, throughout the country. As the catastrophe became
the subject of general conversation, may people learned that the
Silverbridge affair had not, in truth, had much to do with it.
The man had killed himself, as many other men have done before
him, because he had run through his money and had no chance left
of redeeming himself. But to the world at large, the disgrace
brought upon him by the explanation given in Parliament was the
apparent cause of his self-immolation, and there were not wanting
those who felt and expressed a sympathy for a man who could feel
so acutely the affect of his own wrong-doing. No doubt he had
done wrong in asking the Duke for the money. But the request,
though wrong, might almost be justified. There could be no
doubt, these apologists said, that he had been ill-treated
between the Duke and Duchess. No doubt Phineas Finn, who was now
described by some opponents as the Duke's creature, had been able
to make out a story in the Duke's favour. But all the world knew
what was the worth and what was the truth of ministerial
explanations! The Coalition was very strong; and even the
question in the House, which should have been hostile, had been
asked in a friendly spirit. In this way there came to be a
party who spoke and wrote of Ferdinand Lopez as though he had
been a martyr.
Of course Mr Quintus Slide was in the front rank of these
accusers. He may be said to have led the army which made this
matter a pretext for a special attack on the Ministry. Mr Slide
was especially hostile to the Prime Minister, but he was not less
hotly the enemy of Phineas Finn. Against Phineas Finn he had old
grudges, which, however, age had never cooled. He could,
therefore, write with a most powerful pen when discussing the
death of the unfortunate man, the late candidate for
Silverbridge, crushing his two foes in the single grasp of his
journalistic fist. Phineas had certainly said some hard things
against Lopez, though he had not mentioned the man's name. He
had congratulated the House that it had not been contaminated by
the presence of so base a creature, and he had said that he would
not pause to stigmatize the meanness of the application for money
which Lopez had made. Had Lopez continued to live and to endure
the 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune', no one would have
ventured to say that these words would have inflicted too severe
a punishment. But death wipes out many faults, and a self-
inflicted death caused by remorse, will, in the minds of many,
wash a blackamoor almost white. Thus it came to pass that some
heavy weapons were hurled at Phineas Finn, but none so heavy as
those hurled by Quintus Slide. Should not this Irish knight, who
was so ready with his lance in the defence of the Prime Minister,
asked Mr Slide, have remembered past events of his own rather
peculiar life? Had not he, too, been poor, and driven in his
poverty to rather questionable straits? Had he not been abject
in his petition for office,--and in what degree were such
petitions less disgraceful than a request for money which had
been hopelessly expended on an impossible object, attempted at
the instance of the great Croesus who, when asked to pay it, had
at once acknowledged the necessity of doing so? Could not Mr
Finn remember that he himself had stood in danger of his life
before a British jury, and that, though he had been, no doubt
properly, acquitted of the crime imputed to him, circumstances
had come out against him during the trial which, if not as
criminal, were at any rate almost as disgraceful? Could he not
have had some mercy on a broken political adventurer who, in his
aspirations for public life, had shown none of that greed by
which Mr Phineas Finn had been characterized in all the relations
of life. As for the Prime Minister, 'We,' as Mr Quintus Slide
always described himself,--'We do not wish to add to the agony
which the fate of Mr Lopez must have brought upon him. He has
hounded that poor man to his death in revenge for the trifling
sum of money which he was called upon to pay for him. It may be
that the first blame lay not with the Prime Minister himself, but
with the Prime Minister's wife. With that we have nothing to do.
The whole thing lies in a nutshell. The bare mention of the name
of her Grace the Duchess in Parliament would have saved the Duke,
at any rate as effectually as he had been saved by his man-of-
all-work, Phineas Finn, and would have saved him without driving
poor Ferdinand Lopez to insanity. But rather than do this he
allowed his servant to make statements about mysterious agents,
which we are justified in stigmatizing as untrue, and to throw
the whole blame where but the least of the blame was due. We all
know the result. It was found in those gory shreds and tatters
of a poor human being with which the Tenway Railway Station was
bespattered.'
Of course such an article had considerable effect. It was
apparent at once that there was ample room for an action of libel
against the newspaper on the part of Phineas Finn if not on that
of the Duke. But it was equally apparent that Mr Quintus Slide
must have been very well aware of this when he wrote the article.
Such an action, even if successful, may bring with it to the man
punished more of good than evil. Any pecuniary penalty might be
more than recouped by the largeness of advertisement which such
an action would produce. Mr Slide no doubt calculated that he
would carry with him a great body of public feeling by the mere
fact that he had attacked a Prime Minister and a Duke. If he
could only get all the publicans in London to take his paper
because of his patriotic and bold conduct, the fortune of the
paper would be made. There is no better trade than that of
martyrdom, if the would-be martyr knows how far he may
judiciously go, and in what direction. All this Mr Quintus Slide
was supposed to have considered very well.
And Mr Phineas Finn knew that his enemy had also considered the
nature of the matters which he would have been able to drag into
court if there should be a trial. Allusions, very strong
allusions, had been made to former periods of Mr Finn's life.
And though there was but little, if anything, in the past
circumstances of which he was ashamed,--but little, if anything,
which he thought would subject him personally to the odium of
good men, could they be made accurately known in all their
details,--it would, he was well aware, be impossible that such
accuracy should be achieved. And the story if told inaccurately
would not suit him. And then, there was a reason against any
public proceeding much stronger even than this. Whether the
telling of the story would or would not suit him, it certainly
would not suit others. As has been before remarked, there are
former chronicles respecting Phineas Finn, and in them may be
found adequate cause for this conviction on his part. To no
outsider was this history known better than to Mr Quintus Slide,
and therefore Mr Quintus Slide could dare almost to defy the law.
But not the less on this account were there many who told Phineas
that he ought to bring the action. Among these none were more
eager than his old friend Lord Chiltern, the Master of the Brake
hounds, a man who really loved Phineas, who also loved the
abstract idea of justice, and who could not endure the thought
that a miscreant should go unpunished. Hunting was over for the
season in the Brake country, and Lord Chiltern rushed up to
London, having this object among others of a very pressing nature
on his mind. His saddler had to be seen,--and threatened,--on
a certain matter touching the horses' backs. A draught of hounds
were being sent down to a friend in Scotland. And there was a
Committee of Masters to sit on the moot question concerning a
neutral covert in the XXX country, of which Committed he was one.
But the desire to punish Slide was almost as strong in his
indignant mind as those other matters referring more especially
to the profession of his life. 'Phineas,' he said, 'you are
bound to do it. If you will allow a fellow like that to say such
things of you, by heaven, any man may say anything of anybody.'
Now Phineas could hardly explain to Lord Chiltern his objection
to the proposed action. A lady was closely concerned, and that
lady was Lord Chiltern's sister. 'I certainly shall not,' said
Phineas.
'And why?'
'Just because he wishes me to do it. I should be falling into
the little pit he has dug for me.'
'He couldn't hurt you. What have you to be afraid of? Ruat
coelum.'
'There are certain angels, Chiltern, living up in that heaven
which you wish me to pull about our ears, as to whom, if all
their heart and all their wishes and all their doings could be
known, nothing but praise could be spoken; but who would still be
dragged with soiled wings through the dirt if this man were
empowered to bring witness after witness into court. My wife
would be named. For aught I know your wife.'
'By G-, he'd find himself wrong there.'
'Leave a chimney-sweep alone when you see him, Chiltern. Should
he run against you, then remember that it is one of the necessary
penalties of clean linen that it is apt to be soiled.'
'I'm d-d if I'd let him off.'
'Yes you would, old fellow. When you come to see clearly what
you would gain and what you would lose, you would not meddle with
him.'
His wife was at first inclined to think an action should be
taken, but she was more easily convinced than Lord Chiltern. 'I
had not thought,' she said, 'of poor Lady Laura. But is it not
horrible that a man should be able to go on like that, and that
there should be no punishment?' in answer to this he only
shrugged his shoulders.
But the greatest pressure came upon him from another source. He
did not in truth suffer much himself from what was said in the
"People's Banner". He had become used to the "People's Banner",
and had found out that in no relation of life was he less
pleasantly situated because of the maledictions heaped upon him
in the columns of that newspaper. His position in public life
did not seem to be weakened by them. His personal friends did
not fall off because of them. Those who loved him did not love
him less. It had not been so with him always, but now, at last,
he was hardened against Mr Quintus Slide. But the poor Duke was
by no means equally strong. This attack upon him, this
denunciation of his cruelty, this assurance that he had caused
the death of Ferdinand Lopez, was very grievous to him. It was
not that he really felt himself to be guilty of the man's blood,
but that anyone should say he was guilty. It was of no use to
point out to him that other newspapers had sufficiently
vindicated his conduct in that respect, that it was already
publicly known that Lopez had received payment for those election
expenses from Mr Wharton before the application had been made to
him, and that therefore the man's dishonesty was patent to all
the world. It was equally futile to explain to him that the
man's last act had been in no degree caused by what had been said
in Parliament, but had been the result of continued failures in
life and the final absolute ruin. He fretted and fumed and was
very wretched,--and at last expressed his opinion that legal
steps should be taken to punish the "People's Banner". Now it
had already been acknowledged, on the dictum of no less a man
than Sir Gregory Grogram, the Attorney-General, that the action
for libel, if taken at all, must be taken, not on the part of the
Prime Minister, but on that of Phineas Finn. Sir Timothy Beeswax
had indeed doubted, but it had come to be understood by all the
members of the Coalition that Sir Timothy Beeswax always did
doubt whatever was said by Sir Gregory Grogram. 'The Duke thinks
that something should be done,' said Mr Warburton, the Duke's
private Secretary, to Phineas Finn.
'Not by me, I hope,' said Phineas Finn.
'Nobody else can do it. That is to say it must be done in your
name. Of course it would be a Government matter, as far as the
expense goes, and all that.'
'I am sorry the Duke should think so.'
'I don't see that it could hurt you.'
'I am sorry the Duke should think so,' repeated Phineas,--
'because nothing can be done in my name. I have made up my mind
about it. I think the Duke is wrong in wishing it, and I believe
that were any action taken, we should only be playing into the
hands of that wretched fellow, Quintus Slide. I have long been
conversant with Mr Quintus Slide, and have quite made up my mind
that I will never play upon his pipe. And you may tell the Duke
that there are other reasons. The man referred to my past life,
and in seeking to justify those remarks he would be enabled to
drag before the public circumstances and stories, and perhaps
persons, in a manner that I personally should disregard, but
which, for the sake of others, I am bound to prevent it. You
will explain all this to the Duke?'
'I am afraid you will find the Duke very urgent.'
'I must express my great sorrow that I cannot oblige the Duke. I
trust I need hardly say that the Duke has no colleague more
devoted to his interest than I am. Were he to wish me to change
my office, or to abandon it, or to undertake any political duty
within the compass of my small powers, he would find me ready to
obey his behest. But in this matter others are concerned, and I
cannot make my judgement subordinate to his.' The private
Secretary looked very serious, and simply said that he would do
his best to explain these objections to his Grace.
That the Duke would take his refusal in bad part Phineas felt
nearly certain. He had been a little surprised at the coldness
of the Minister's manner to him after the statement he had made
in the House, and had mentioned the matter to his wife. 'You
hardly know him,' she had said, 'as well as I do.'
'Certainly not. You ought to know him very intimately, and I
have had but little personal friendship with him. But it was a
moment in which the man might, for the moment, been cordial.'
'It was not a moment for his cordiality. The Duchess says that
if you want to get a really genial smile from him you must talk
to him about cork soles. I know exactly what she means. He
loves to be simple, but he does not know how to show people that
he likes it. Lady Rosina found him out by accident.'
'Don't suppose that I am in the least aggrieved,' he had said.
And now he spoke again to his wife in the same spirit.
'Warburton clearly thinks he will be offended, and Warburton, I
suppose, knows his mind.'
'I don't see why he should. I have been reading it longer, and I
still find it very difficult. Lady Glen has been at work for the
last fifteen years, and sometimes owns that there are passages
she has not mastered yet. I fancy Mr Warburton is afraid of him,
and is a little given to fancy that everybody should bow down to
him. Now if there is anything certain about the Duke it is this,
--that he doesn't want anyone to bow down to him. He hates all
bowing down.
'I don't think he loves those who oppose him.'
'It is not the opposition he hates, but the cause in the man's
mind which may produce it. When Sir Orlando opposed him, and he
thought that Sir Orlando's opposition was founded on jealousy,
then he despised Sir Orlando. But had he believed in Sir
Orlando's belief in the new ships, he would have been capable of
pressing Sir Orlando to his bosom, although he might have been
forced to oppose Sir Orlando's ships in the Cabinet.'
'He is a Sir Bayard to you,' said Phineas, laughing.
'Rather a Don Quixote, whom I take to have been the better man of
the two. I'll tell you what he is, Phineas, and how he is better
than all the real knights of whom I have read in story. He is a
man altogether without guile, and entirely devoted to his
country. Do not quarrel with him, if you can help it.'
Phineas had not the slightest desire to quarrel with his chief,
but he did think it to be not improbable that his chief would
quarrel with him. It was notorious to him as a member of the
Cabinet,--as a colleague living with other colleagues by whom
the Prime Minister was coddled, and especially as the husband of
his wife, who lived almost continually with the Prime Minister's
wife,--that the Duke was cut to the quick by the accusation that
he had hounded Ferdinand Lopez to his death. The Prime Minister
had defended himself in the House against the first change by
means of Phineas Finn, and now required Phineas to defend him
from the second charge in another way. This he was obliged to
refuse to do. And then the Minister's private Secretary looked
very grave, and left him with the impression that the Duke would
be much annoyed, if not offended. And already there had grown up
an idea that the Duke would have on the list of his colleagues
none who were personally disagreeable to himself. Though he was
by no means a strong Minister in regard to political measures, or
the proper dominion of his party, still men were afraid of him.
It was not that he would call upon them to resign, but that, if
aggrieved, he would resign himself. Sir Orlando Drought had
rebelled and had tried a fall with the Prime Minister,--and had
greatly failed. Phineas determined that if frowned upon he would
resign, but that he certainly would bring no action for libel
against the "People's Banner".
A week passed after he had seen Warburton before he by chance
found himself alone with the Prime Minister. This occurred at
the house in Carlton Gardens, at which he was a frequent visitor,
--and could hardly have ceased to be so without being noticed, as
his wife spent half her time there. It was evident to him then
that the occasion was sought for by the Duke. 'Mr Finn,' said
the Duke, 'I wanted to have a word with you.'
'Certainly,' said Phineas, arresting his steps.
'Warburton spoke to you about that--that newspaper.'
'Yes, Duke. He seemed to think that there should be an action
for libel.'
'I thought so too. It was very bad, you know.'
'Yes;--it was bad. I have known the "People's Banner" for some
time, and it is always bad.'
'No doubt;--no doubt. It is bad, very bad. Is it not sad that
there should be such dishonesty, and that nothing can be done to
stop it? Warburton says that you won't hear of an action in your
name?'
'There are reasons, Duke.'
'No doubt;--no doubt. Well;--there's an end of it. I own I
think the man should be punished. I am not often vindictive, but
I think that he should be punished. However, I suppose it cannot
be.'
'I don't see the way.'
'So be it. So be it. It must be entirely for you to judge. Are
you not longing to get into the country, Mr Finn?'
'Hardly yet,' said Phineas, surprised. 'It's only June, and we
have two months more of it. What is the use of longing yet?'
'Two months more!' said the Duke. 'Two months certainly. But
even two months will come to an end. We go down to Matching
quietly,--very quietly,--when the time does come. You must
promise me that you'll come with us. Eh? I make a point of it
Mr Finn.'
Phineas did promise, and thought that he had succeeded in
mastering one of the difficult passages in that book.
CHAPTER 63
THE DUCHESS AND HER FRIEND.
But the Duke, though he was by far too magnanimous to be angry
with Phineas Finn because Phineas would not fall into his views
respecting the proposed action, was not the less tormented and
goaded by what the newspaper said. The assertion that he had
hounded Ferdinand Lopez to death, that by his defence of himself
he had brought the man's blood on his head, was made and repeated
till those round him did not dare to mention the name of Lopez in
his hearing. Even his wife was restrained and became fearful,
and in her heart of hearts began almost to wish for that
retirement to which he occasionally alluded as a distant Elysium
which he should never be allowed to reach. He was beginning to
have the worn look of an old man. His scanty hair was turning
grey, and his long thin cheeks longer and thinner. Of what he
did when sitting alone in his chamber, either at home or at the
Treasury Chamber, she knew less and less from day to day, and she
began to think that much of the sorrow arose from the fact that
among them they would allow him to do nothing. There was no
special subject now which stirred him to eagerness and brought
upon herself explanations which were tedious and unintelligible
to her, but evidently delightful to him. There were no quints or
semi-tenths now, no aspirations for decimal perfection, no
delightfully fatiguing hours spent in the manipulation of the
multiplication table. And she could not but observe that the old
Duke now spoke to her much less frequently of her husband's
political position than had been his habit. He still came
frequently to the house, but did not often see her. And when he
did see her he seemed to avoid all allusion either to the
political successes or the political reverses of the Coalition.
And even her other special allies seemed to labour under unusual
restraint with her. Barrington Erle seldom told her any news.
Mr Rattler never had a word for her. Warburton, who had ever
been discreet, became almost petrified by discretion. And even
Phineas Finn had grown to be solemn, silent and uncommunicative.
'Have you heard who is the new Prime Minister?' she said to Mrs
Finn one day.
'Has there been a change?'
'I suppose so. Everything has become so quiet that I cannot
imagine that Plantagenet is still in office. Do you know what
anybody is doing?'
'The world is going on very smoothly, I take it.'
'I hate smoothness. It always means treachery and danger. I
feel sure that there will be a great blow up before long. I
smell it in the air. Don't you tremble for your husband?'
'Why should I? He likes being in office because it gives him
something to do; but he would never be an idle man. As long as
he has a seat in Parliament, I shall be contented.'
'To have been Prime Minister is something after all, and they
can't rob him of that,' said the Duchess recurring again to her
own husband. 'I half fancy sometimes that the charm of the thing
is growing up on him.'
'Upon the Duke?'
'Yes. He is always talking of the delight he will have in giving
it up. He is always Cincinnatus, going back to his peaches
and his ploughs. But I fear he is beginning to feel that the
salt would be gone out of his life if he ceased to be the first
man in the kingdom. He has never said so, but there is a
nervousness about him when I suggest to him the name of this or
that man as his successor which alarms me. And I think he is
becoming a tyrant with his own men. He spoke the other day of
Lord Drummond almost as though he meant to have him whipped. It
isn't what one expected from him,--is it?'
'The weight of the load on his mind makes him irritable.'
'Either that, or having no load. If he had really much to do he
wouldn't surely have time to think so much of that poor wretch
who destroyed himself. Such sensitiveness is simply a disease.
One can never punish any fault in the world if the sinner can
revenge himself upon us by rushing into eternity. Sometimes I
see him shiver and shudder, and then I know he is thinking of
Lopez.'
'I can understand all that, Lady Glen.'
'It isn't as it should be, though you can understand it. I'll
bet you a guinea that Sir Timothy Beeswax has to go out before
the beginning of the next Session.'
'I've no objection. But why Sir Timothy?'
'He mentioned Lopez's name the other day before Plantagenet. I
heard him. Plantagenet pulled that long face of his, looking as
though he meant to impose silence on the whole world for the next
six weeks. But Sir Timothy is brass itself, a sounding cymbal of
brass that nothing can silence. He went on to declare with that
loud voice of his that the death of Lopez was a good riddance to
bad rubbish. Plantagenet turned away and left the room and shut
himself up. He didn't declare to himself that he would dismiss
Sir Timothy, because that's not the way of his mind. But you'll
see that Sir Timothy will have to go.'
'That, at any rate, will be a good riddance of bad rubbish' said
Mrs Finn, who did not love Sir Timothy Beeswax.
Soon after that the Duchess made up her mind that she would
interrogate the Duke of St Bungay as to the present state of
affairs. It was then the end of June, and nearly one of those
long and tedious months had gone by of which the Duke spoke so
feelingly when he asked Phineas Finn to come down to Matching.
Hope had been expressed in more than one quarter that this would
be a short Session. Such hopes are more common in June than in
July, and, though rarely verified, serve to keep up the drooping
spirits of languid senators. 'I suppose we shall be early out of
town, Duke,' she said one day.
'I think so. I don't see what there is to keep us. It often
happens that ministers are a great deal better in the country
than in London, and I fancy it will be so this year.'
'You never think of the poor girls who haven't got their husbands
yet.'
'They should make better use of their time. Besides, they can
get their husbands in the country.'
'It's quite true that they never get to the end of their labours.
They are not like you members of Parliament who can shut up your
portfolios and go and shoot grouse. They have to keep at their
work spring and summer, autumn and winter,--year after year!
How they must hate the men they persecute!'
'I don't think we can put off going for their sake.'
'Men are always selfish, I know. What do you think of
Plantagenet lately?' The question was put very abruptly, without
a moment's notice, and there was no avoiding it.
'Think of him!'
'Yes;--what do you think of his condition;--of his happiness,
his health, his capacity of endurance? Will he be able to go on
much longer? Now, my dear Duke, don't stare at me like that.
You know, and I know, that you haven't spoken a word to me for
the last two months. And you know, I know, how many things there
are of which we are both thinking in common. You haven't
quarrelled with Plantagenet?'
'Quarrelled with him! Good heavens no.'
'Of course I know you still call him your noble colleague, and
your noble friend, and make one of the same team with him and all
that. But it used to be so much more than that.'
'It is still much more than that;--much more.'
'It was you who made him Prime Minister.'
'No, no, no;--and again no. He made himself Prime Minister by
obtaining the confidence of the House of Commons. There is no
other possible way in which a man can become Prime Minister in
this country.'
'If I were not very serious at this moment, Duke, I should make
an allusion to the--Marines.' No other human being could have
said this to the Duke of St Bungay, except the young woman whom
he had petted all his life as Lady Glencora. 'But I am very
serious,' she continued, 'and I may say I am not very happy. Of
course the big wigs of a party have to settle among themselves
who shall be their leader, and when this party was formed they
settled, at your advice, that Plantagenet should be the man.'
'My dear Lady Glencora, I cannot allow that to pass without
contradiction.'
'Do not suppose that I am finding fault, or even that I am
ungrateful. No one rejoiced as I rejoiced. No one still feels
so much pride in it as I feel. I would have given ten years of
my life to keep him so. It is like it was to be king, when men
struggled among themselves who should be king. Whatever he may
be, I am ambitious. I love to think that other men should look
at him as being above them, and that something of this should
come down upon me as his wife. I do not know whether it was not
the happiest moment of my life when he told me that the Queen had
sent for him.'
'It was not so with him.'
'No, Duke,--no! He and I are very different. He only wants to
be useful. At any rate, that was all he did want.'
'He is still the same.'
'A man cannot always be carrying a huge load up a hill without
having his back bent.'
'I don't know that the load need be so heavy, Duchess.'
'Ah, but what is the load? It is not going to the Treasury
Chambers at eleven or twelve in the morning and sitting four or
five times a week in the House of Lords till seven or eight
o'clock. He was never ill when he would remain in the House of
Commons till two in the morning, and not have a decent dinner
above twice in the week. The load I speak of isn't work.'
'What is it then?' said the Duke, who in truth understood it all
nearly as well as the Duchess herself.
'It is hard to explain, but it is very heavy.'
'Responsibility, my dear, will always be very heavy.'
'But it is hardly that;--certainly not that alone. It is the
feeling that so many people blame him for so many things, and the
doubt in his own mind whether he may not deserve it. And then he
becomes fretful, and conscious that such fretfulness is beneath
him, and injurious to his honour. He condemns men in his mind,
and condemns himself for condescending to condemn them. He
spends one quarter of an hour thinking that as he is Prime
Minister he will be Prime Minister down to his fingers' ends, and
the next in resolving that he never ought to have been Prime
Minister at all.' Here something like a frown passed across the
old man's brow, which was, however, no indication of anger.
'Dear Duke,' she said, 'you must not be angry with me. Who is
there to whom I can speak but you?'
'Angry, my dear! No, indeed!'
'Because you looked as though you would scold me.' At this he
smiled. 'And of course all this tells upon his health.'
'Do you think he is ill?'
'He never says so. There is no special illness. But he is thin
and wan and careworn. He does not eat and he does not sleep. Of
course I watch him.'
'Does his doctor see him?'
'Never. When I asked him once to say a word to Sir James Thorax,
--for he was getting hoarse, you know,--he only shook his head
and turned on his heels. When he was in the other House, and
speaking every night, he would see Thorax constantly, and do just
what he was told. He used to like opening his mouth and having
Sir James look down it. But now he won't let anyone touch him.'
'What would you have me do, Lady Glen?'
'I don't know.'
'Do you think that he is so far out of his health that he ought
to give it up?'
'I don't say that. I don't dare say that. I don't dare to
recommend anything. No consideration of health would tell with
him at all. If he were to die to-morrow as the penalty of doing
something useful to-night, he wouldn't think twice about it. If
you wanted to make him stay where he is, the way to do it to tell
him that his health was failing him. I don't know that he does
want to give it up now.'
'The autumn months will do everything for him;--only let him be
quiet.'
'You are coming to Matching, Duke?'
'I suppose so;--if you ask me,--for a week or two.'
'You must come. I am quite nervous if you desert us. I think he
becomes estranged every day from all the others. I know you
won't do a mischief by repeating what I say.'
'I hope not.'
'He seems to me to turn his nose up at everybody. He used to
like Mr Monk; but he envies Mr Monk, because Mr Monk is
Chancellor of the Exchequer. I asked him whether we shouldn't
have Lord Drummond at Matching and he told me angrily that I
might ask the whole Government if I liked.'
'Drummond contradicted him the other day.'
'I knew there was something. He has got to be like a bear with a
sore head, Duke. You should have seen his face the other day,
when Mr Rattler made some suggestion to him about the proper way
of dividing farms.'
'I don't think he ever liked Rattler.'
'What of that? Don't I have to smile upon men whom I hate like
poison;--and women too, which is worse? Do you think that I
love old Lady Ramsden, or Mrs MacPherson? He used to be so fond
of Lord Cantrip.'
'I think he likes Lord Cantrip,' said the Duke.
'He asked his lordship to do something and Lord Cantrip
declined.'
'I know all about that,' said the Duke.
'And now he looks gloomy at Lord Cantrip. His friends won't
stand that kind of thing, you know, for ever.'
'He is always courteous to Finn,' said the Duke.
'Yes;--just now he is on good terms with Mr Finn. He would never
be harsh to Mr Finn, because he knows that Mrs Finn is the one
really intimate female friend whom I have in the world. After
all, Duke, besides Plantagenet and the children, there are only
two persons in the world whom I really love. There are only you
and she. She will never desert me,--and you must not desert me
either.' Then he put his hand behind her waist, and stooped over
and kissed her brow, and swore to her that he would never desert
her.
But what was he to do? He knew, without being told by the
Duchess, that his colleague and chief was becoming, from day to
day, more difficult to manage. He had been right enough in
laying it down as a general rule that Prime Ministers are
selected for that position by the general confidence of the House
of Commons;--but he was aware at the same time that it had
hardly been so in the present instance. There had come to be a
deadlock in affairs, during which neither of the two old and
recognised leaders of parties could command a sufficient
following for the carrying on of a government. With unusual
patience these two gentlemen had now for the greater part of
three Sessions sat by, offering but little opposition to the
Coalition, but of course biding their time. They, too, called
themselves,--perhaps thought themselves,--Cincinnatuses. But
their ploughs and peaches did not suffice to them, and they
longed again to be in every mouth, and to have, if to their
deeds, then even their omissions blazoned in every paragraph.
The palate accustomed to Cayenne pepper can hardly be gratified
by simple salt. When that deadlock had come, politicians who
were really anxious for the country had been forced to look about
for a Premier,--and in the search the old Duke had been the
foremost. The Duchess had hardly said more than the truth when
she declared that her husband's promotion had been effected by
their old friend. But it is sometimes easier to make than
unmake. Perhaps the time had now in truth come, in which it
would be better for the country that the usual state of things
should again exist. Perhaps,--nay, the Duke now thought that he
saw that it was so,--Mr Gresham might again have a Liberal
majority at his back if the Duke of Omnium could find some
graceful mode of retiring. But who was to tell all this to the
Duke of Omnium? There was only one man in all England to whom
such a task was possible, and that was the old Duke himself,--
who during the last two years had been constantly with his friend
not to retire! How often since he had taken office had the
conscientious and timid Minister begged of his friend permission
to abandon his high office! But that permission had always been
refused, and now, for the last three months, the request had not
been repeated. The Duchess was probably right in saying that her
husband 'didn't want to give it up now.'
But he, the Duke of St Bungay, had brought his friend into the
trouble, and it was certainly his duty to extricate him from it.
The admonition might come in the rude shape of repeated
minorities in the House of Commons. Hitherto the number of votes
at the command of the Ministry had not been very much impaired.
A few always fell off as time goes on. Aristides becomes too
just, and the mind of man is greedy of novelty. Sir Orlando
also, had taken with him a few, and it may be that two or three
had told themselves that there could not be all that smoke raised
by the "People's Banner", without some fire below it. But there
was a good working majority,--very much at Mr Monk's command,--
and Mr Monk was moved by none of that feeling of rebellion which
had urged Sir Orlando on to his destruction. It was difficult to
find a cause for resignation. And yet the Duke of St Bungay, who
had watched the House of Commons closely for nearly half a
century, was aware that the Coalition which he had created had
done its work, and was almost convinced that it would not be
permitted to remain very much longer in power. He had seen some
symptoms of impatience in Mr Daubney, and Mr Gresham had snorted
once and twice, as though eager for battle.
CHAPTER 64
THE NEW K.G.
Early in June had died the Marquess of Mount Fidgett. In all
England there was no older family than that of the Fichy
Fidgetts, whose baronial castle of Fichy Fellows is still kept
up, the glory of archaeologists and the charm of tourists. Some
people declare it to be the most perfect castle residence in the
country. It is admitted to have been completed in the time of
Edward VI, and is thought to have commenced in the days of Edward
I. It has always belonged to the Fichy Fidgett family, who with
a persistence that is becoming rarer every day, has clung to every
acre that it ever owned, and has added acre to acre in every age.
The consequence has been that the existing Marquis of Mount
Fidgett has always been possessed of great territorial influence,
and has been flattered, cajoled, and revered by one Prime
Minister after another. Now the late Marquis had been, as was
the custom with the Fichy Fidgetts, a man of pleasure. If the
truth be spoken openly, it should be admitted that he had been a
man of sin. The duty of keeping together the family property he
had performed with a perfect zeal. It had always been
acknowledged on behalf of the existing Marquis, that in whatever
manner he might spend his money, however base might be the
gullies into which his wealth descended, he never spent more that
he had to spend. Perhaps there was but little praise in this, as
he could hardly have got beyond his enormous income unless he had
thrown it away on race-courses and roulette tables. But it had
long been remarked of the Mount Fidgett marquises that they were
too wise to gamble. The family had not been an honour to the
country, but had nevertheless been honoured by the country. The
man who had just died had perhaps been as selfish and sensual a
brute as had ever disgraced humanity;--but nevertheless he had
been a Knight of the Garter. He had been possessed of
considerable parliamentary interest, and the Prime Minister of
the day had not dared not to make him a Knight of the Garter.
All the Marquises of Mount Fidgett had for many years past been
Knights of the Garter. On the last occasion a good deal had been
said about it. A feeling had even then begun to prevail that the
highest personal offer in the gift of the Crown should not be
bestowed upon a man whose whole life was a disgrace, and who did
indeed seem to deserve every punishment which a human or divine
wrath could inflict. He had a large family, but they were
illegitimate. Wives generally he liked, but of his own wife he
very soon broke the heart. Of all the companies with which he
consorted he was the admitted king, but his subjects could do no
man any honour. The Castle of Fichy Fellows was visited by the
world at large, but no man or woman with a character to lose went
into any house really inhabited by the Marquis. And yet he had
become a Knight of the Garter, and was therefore, presumably, one
of those noble Englishmen to whom the majesty of the day was
willing to confide the honour, and glory, and safety of the
Crown. There were many who disliked this. That a base reprobate
should become a Marquis and a peer of Parliament was in
accordance with the constitution of the country. Marquises and
peers are not as a rule reprobates, and the misfortune was one
which could not be avoided. He might have ill-used his own wife
and other wives' husbands without special remark had he not been
made a Knight of the Garter. The Minister of the day, however,
had known the value of the man's support, and being thick-
skinned, had lived through the reproaches uttered without much
damage to himself. Now the wicked Marquis was dead, and it was
the privilege and the duty of the Duke of Omnium to select
another knight.
There was a good deal said about it at the time. There was a
rumour,--no doubt a false rumour,--that the Crown insisted in
this instance on dictating a choice to the Duke of Omnium. But
even were it so, the Duke could not have been very much
aggrieved, as the choice dictated was supposed to be that
himself. The late Duke had been a Knight, and when he had died,
it was thought that his successor would succeed to the ribbon.
The new Duke had been at the time in the Cabinet, and had
remained there, but had accepted an office inferior in rank to
that which he had formerly filled. The whole history of these
things has been written, and may be read by the curious. The
Duchess, newly a duchess then and very keen in reference to her
husband's rank, had instigated him to demand the ribbon as his
right. This he had not only declined to do, but had gone out of
the way to say that he thought it should be bestowed elsewhere.
It had been bestowed elsewhere, and there had been a very general
feeling that he had been passed over because his easy temperament
in such matters had been seen and utilized. Now, whether the
Crown interfered or not,--a matter on which no one short of a
writer of newspaper articles dares to make suggestion till time
shall have made mellow the doings of sovereigns and their
ministers,--the suggestion was made. The Duke of St Bungay
ventured to say to his friend that no other selection was
possible.
'Recommend her Majesty to give it to myself?' said the Prime
Minister.
'You will find it to be her Majesty's wish. It has been very
common. Sir Robert Walpole had it.'
'I am not Sir Robert Walpole.' The Duke named other examples of
Prime Ministers who had been gartered by themselves. But our
Prime Minister declared it to be out of the question. No honour
of that description should be conferred upon him as long as he
held his present position. The old Duke was much in earnest, and
there was a great deal said on the subject,--but at last it
became clear, not only to him, but to the members of the Cabinet
generally, and then to the outside world, that the Prime Minister
would not consent to accept the vacant honour.
For nearly a month after this the question subsided. A Minister
is not bound to bestow a Garter the day after it becomes vacant.
There are other Knights to guard the throne, and one may be
spared for a short interval. But during the interval many eyes
were turned towards the stall in St George's Chapel. A good
thing should be given away like a clap of thunder if envy,
hatred, and malice are to be avoided. A broad blue ribbon across
the chest is of all decorations the most becoming, or, at any
rate, the most desired. And there was, I fear, an impression on
the minds of some men that the Duke in such matters was weak and
might be persuaded. Then there came to him an application in the
form of a letter from the new Marquis of Mount Fidgett,--a man
whom he had never seen, and of whom he had never heard. The new
Marquis had hitherto resided in Italy, and men only knew of him
that he was odious to his uncle. But he had inherited all the
Fichy Fidgett estates, and was now possessed of immense wealth
and great honour. He ventured, he said, to represent to the
Prime Minister that for generations past the Marquises of Mount
Fidgett had been honoured by the Garter. His political status in
the country was exactly that enjoyed by his late uncle, but he
intended that his political career should be very different. He
was quite prepared to support the Coalition. 'What is he that he
should expect to be made a Knight of the Garter?' said our Duke
to the old Duke.
'He is the Marquis of Mount Fidgett, and next to yourself,
perhaps, the richest peer in Great Britain.'
'Have riches anything to do with it?'
'Something certainly. You would not want to name a pauper peer.'
'Yes;--if he was a man whose career had been highly honourable
to the country. Such a man, of course, could not be a pauper,
but I do not think his want of wealth should stand in the way of
his being honoured by the Garter.'
'Wealth and rank and territorial influence have been generally
thought to have something to do with it.'
'And character nothing!'
'My dear Duke, I have not said so.'
'Something very much like it, my friend, if you advocate the
claim of the Marquis of Mount Fidgett. Did you approve of the
selection of the late Marquis?'
'I was in the Cabinet at the time, and will therefore say nothing
against it. But I have never heard anything against this man's
character.'
'Nor in favour of it. To my thinking he has as much claim, and
no more, as that man who just opened the door. He was never seen
in the Lower House.'
'Surely that cannot signify.'
'You think, then, that he should have it?'
'You know what I think,' said the elder statesman thoughtfully.
'In my opinion there is no doubt that you would at least consult
the honour of the country by allowing her Majesty to bestow this
act of grace upon a subject who has deserved so well from her
Majesty as yourself.'
'It is quite impossible.'
'It seems to me,' said the Duke, not appearing to notice the
refusal of his friend, 'that in this peculiar position you should
allow yourself to be persuaded to lay aside your own feeling. No
man of high character is desirous of securing to himself
decorations which he may bestow upon others.'
'Just so.'
'But here the decoration bestowed upon the chief whom we all
follow, would confer a wider honour upon many than it could do if
given to anyone else.'
'The same may be said of any Prime Minister.'
'Not so. A commoner, without high permanent rank or large
fortune, is not lowered in the world's esteem by not being of the
Order. You will permit me to say--that a Duke of Omnium has not
reached the position which he ought to enjoy unless he is a
Knight of the Garter.' It must be borne in mind that the old
Duke, who used this argument, had himself worn the ribbon for the
last thirty years. 'But if--'
'Well;--well.'
'But if you are,--I must call it obstinate.'
'I am obstinate in that respect.'
'Then,' said the Duke of St Bungay, 'I should recommend her
Majesty to give it to the Marquis.'
'Never,' said the Prime Minister, with very unaccustomed energy.
'I will never sanction the payment of such a price for services
which should never be bought or sold.'
'It would give no offence.'
'That is not enough, my friend. Here is a man of whom I only know
that he has bought a great many marble statues. He has done
nothing for his country, and nothing for his sovereign.'
'If you are determined to look at what you call desert alone, I
would name Lord Drummond.' The Prime Minister frowned and looked
unhappy. It was quite true that Lord Drummond had contradicted
him, and that he had felt the injury grievously. 'Lord Drummond
has been very true to us.'
'Yes;--true to us! What is that?'
'He is in every respect a man of character, and well looked upon
in the country. There would be some enmity and a good deal of
envy--which might be avoided by either of the other courses I
have proposed; but those courses you will not take. I take it
for granted that you are anxious to secure the support of those
who generally act with Lord Drummond.'
'I don't know that I am.' The old Duke shrugged his shoulders.
'What I mean is, that I do not think that we ought to pay an
increased price for their support. His lordship is very well as
the Head of an Office; but he is not nearly so great a man as my
friend Lord Cantrip.'
'Cantrip would not join us. There is no evil in politics so
great as that of seeming to buy the men who will not come without
buying. These rewards are fairly given for political support.'
'I had not, in truth, thought of Lord Cantrip.'
'He does not expect it any more than my butler.'
'I only named him as having a claim stronger than any that Lord
Drummond can put forward. I have a man in my mind to whom I
think such an honour is fairly due. What do you say to Lord
Earlybird?' The old Duke opened his mouth and lifted up his
hands in unaffected surprise.
The Earl of Earlybird was an old man of a very peculiar
character. He had never opened his mouth in the House of Lords,
and had never sat in the House of Commons. The political world
knew him not at all. He had a house in town, but very rarely
lived there. Early Park, in the parish of B Bird, had been his
residence since he first came to the title forty years ago, and
had been the scene of all his labours. He was a nobleman
possessed of a moderate fortune, and, as men said of him, of a
moderate intellect. He had married early in life and was blessed
with a large family. But he had certainly not been an idle man.
For nearly half a century he had devoted himself to the
improvement of the labouring classes, especially in reference to
their abodes and education, and gradually without any desire on
his own part, worked himself up into public notice. He was not
an eloquent man, but he would take the chair at meeting after
meeting, and sit with admirable patience for long hours to hear
the eloquence of others. He was a man very simple in his tastes,
and had brought up his family to follow his habits. He had
therefore been able to do munificent things with moderate means,
and in the long course of years had failed in hiding his
munificence from the public. Lord Earlybird, till after middle
life, had not been much considered, but gradually there had grown
up a feeling that there were not very many better men in the
country. He was a fat, bald-headed old man, who was always
pulling his spectacles on and off, nearly blind, very awkward,
and altogether indifferent to appearance. Probably he had no
more idea of the Garter in his own mind than he had of a
Cardinal's hat. But he had grown into fame, and had not escaped
the notice of the Prime Minister.
'Do you know anything against Lord Earlybird?' asked the Prime
Minister.
'Certainly nothing against him, Duke.'
'Not anything in his favour?'
'I know him very well,--I think I may say intimately. There
isn't a better man breathing.'
'A honour to the peerage?' said the Prime Minister.
'An honour to humanity rather,' said the other, 'as being of all
men the least selfish and most philanthropical.'
'What more can be said for a man?'
'But according to my view he is not the sort of person whom one
would wish to see made a Knight of the Garter. If he had the
ribbon he would never wear it.'
'The honour surely does not consist in its outward sign. I am
entitled to wear some kind of coronet, but I do not walk about
with it on my head. He is a man of great heart and of many
virtues. Surely the country, and her Majesty on behalf of the
country, should delight to honour such a man.'
'I really doubt whether you look at the matter in the right
light,' said the ancient statesman, who was in truth frightened
at what was being proposed. 'You must not be angry with me if I
speak plainly.'
'My friend, I do not think that it is within your power to make
me angry.'
'Well then,--I will get for a moment to listen to my view on the
matter. There are certain great prizes in the gift of the Crown
and of the Ministers of the Crown,--the greatest of which are
now traditionally at the disposal of the Prime Minister. These
are always given to party friends. I may perhaps agree with you
that party support should not be looked to alone. Let us
acknowledge that character and services should be taken into
account. But the very theory of our Government will be overset
by a reversal of the rule which I have attempted to describe.
You will offend all your own friends, and only incur the ridicule
of your opponents. It is no doubt desirable that the high seats
of the country should be filled by men of both parties. I would
not wish to see every Lord Lieutenant of a county a Whig.' In
his enthusiasm the old Duke went back to his old phraseology.
'But I know that my opponents when their turn comes will appoint
their friends to the Lieutenancies and that the balance will be
maintained. If you or I appoint their friends, they won't
appoint ours. Lord Earlybird's proxy has been in the hands of
the Conservative Leader of the House of Lords ever since he
succeeded his father.' Then the old man paused, but his friend
waited to listen whether the lecture were finished before he
spoke, and the Duke of St Bungay continued. 'And, moreover,
though Lord Earlybird is a very good man,--so much so that many
of us may well envy him,--he is not just the man fitted for this
destination. A Knight of the Garter should be a man prone to
show himself, a public man, one whose work in the country has
brought him face to face with his fellows. There is an aptness,
a propriety, a fitness in these things which one can understand
perhaps better than explain.'
'Those fitnesses and aptnesses change, I think, from day to day.
There was a time when a knight should be a fighting man.'
'That has gone by.'
'And the aptness and fitness in accordance with which the
sovereign of the day was induced to grace with the Garter such a
man as the late Marquis of Mount Fidgett have, I hope, gone by.
You will admit that?'
'There is no such man proposed.'
'And other fitnesses and aptnesses will go by, till the time will
come when the man to be selected as Lieutenant of a county will
be the man whose selection will be most beneficial to the county,
and Knights of the Garter will be chosen for their real virtues.'
'I think you are Quixotic. A Prime Minister is of all men bound
to follow the traditions of his country, or, when he leaves them,
to leave them with very gradual steps.'
'And if he break that law and throw over all that thraldom;--
what then?'
'He will lose the confidence which has made him what he is.'
'It is well that I know the penalty. It is hardly heavy enough
to enforce strict obedience. As for the matter in dispute, it
had better stand over for a few days.' When the Prime Minister
said this the old Duke knew very well that he intended to have
his own way.
And so it was. A week passed by, and then the younger Duke wrote
to the elder Duke saying that he had given to the matter all the
consideration in his power, and that he had at last resolved to
recommend her Majesty to bestow the ribbon on Lord Earlybird. He
would not, however, take any step for a few days so that his
friend might have an opportunity of making further remonstrance
if he pleased. No further remonstrance was made, and Lord
Earlybird, much to his own amazement, was nominated to the vacant
Garter.
The appointment was one certainly not popular with any of the
Prime Minister's friends. With some, such as Lord Drummond, it
indicated a determination on the part of the Duke to declare his
freedom from all those bonds which had hitherto been binding on
the Heads of Government. Had the Duke selected himself,
certainly no offence would have been given. Had the Marquis of
Mount Fidgett been the happy man, excuses would have been made.
But it was unpardonable to Lord Drummond that he should have been
passed over and that the Garter should have been given to Lord
Earlybird. To the poor old Duke the offence was of a different
nature. He had intended to use a very strong word when he told
his friend that his proposed conduct would be Quixotic. The Duke
of Omnium would surely know that the Duke of St Bungay could not
support a Quixotic Prime Minister. And yet the younger Duke, the
Telemachus of the last two years,--after hearing that word,--
had rebelled against his Mentor, and had obstinately adhered to
his Quixotism! The greed of power had fallen upon the man,--so
said the dear old Duke to himself,--and the man's fall was
certain. Alas, alas; had he been allowed to go before the poison
had entered his veins, how much less would have been his
suffering!
CHAPTER 65
THERE MUST BE TIME.
At the end of the third week in July, when the Session was still
sitting, and when no day had been absolutely as yet fixed for the
escape of members, Mr Wharton received a letter from his friend
Arthur Fletcher which certainly surprised him very much, and
which left him for a day or two unable to decide what answer
ought to be given. It will be remembered that Ferdinand Lopez
destroyed himself in March, now three months since. The act had
been more than a nine days' wonder, having been kept in the
memory of many men by the sedulous efforts of Quintus Slide, and
by the fact that the name of so great a man as the Prime Minister
was concerned in the matter. But gradually the feeling about
Ferdinand Lopez had died away, and his fate, though it had
outlived the nominal nine days, had sunk into general oblivion
before the end of the ninth week. The Prime Minister had not
forgotten the man, nor had Quintus Slide. The name was still
common in the columns of the "People's Banner", and was ever
mentioned without being read by the unfortunate Duke. But others
had ceased to talk about Ferdinand Lopez.
To the mind, however, of Arthur Fletcher the fact of the man's
death was always present. A dreadful incubus had come upon his
life, blighting all his prospects, obscuring all his sun by a
great cloud, covering up all his hopes, and changing for him all
his outlook into the world. It was not only that Emily Wharton
should not have become his wife, but that the woman whom he loved
with so perfect a love, should have been sacrificed to so vile a
creature as this man. He never blamed her,--but looked upon his
fate as Fate. Then on a sudden he heard that the incubus was
removed. The man who had made him and her wretched had by a
sudden stroke been taken away and annihilated. There was nothing
between him and her,--but a memory. He could certainly forgive,
if she could forget.
Of course he had felt at the first moment that time must pass by.
He had become certain that her mad love for the man had perished.
He had been made sure that she had repented her own deed in
sackcloth and ashes. It had been acknowledged to him by her
father that she had been anxious to be separated from her husband
if her husband would consent to such a separation. And then,
remembering as he did his last interview with her, having in his
mind as he had every circumstance of that caress which he had
given her,--down to the very quiver of the fingers he had
pressed,--he could not but flatter himself that at last he had
touched her heart. But there must be time! The conventions of
the world operate on all hearts, especially on the female heart,
and teach that new vows, too quickly given, are disgraceful. The
world has seemed to decide that a widow should take two years
before she can bestow herself on a second man without a touch of
scandal. But the two years is to include everything, the
courtship of the second as well as the burial of the first,--and
not only the courtship, but the preparation of the dresses and
the wedding itself. And then this case was different from all
the others. Of course there must be time, but surely not here a
full period of two years! Why should the life of two young
persons be so wasted, if it were the case that they loved each
other! There was horror here, remorse, pity, perhaps pardon; but
there was no love,--none of that love which is always for a
little time increased in its fervour by the loss of the loved
object; none of that passionate devotion which must at first make
the very idea of another man's love intolerable. There had been
a great escape,--an escape which could not but be inwardly
acknowledged, however little prone the tongue might be to confess
it. Of course there must be time,--but how much time? He
argued it in his mind daily, and at each daily argument the time
considered by him to be appropriate was shortened. Three months
had passed and he had not yet seen her. He had resolved that he
would not even attempt to see her till her father would consent.
But surely a period had passed sufficient to justify him in
applying for that permission. And then he bethought himself that
it would be best in applying for that permission to tell
everything to Mr Wharton. He well knew that he would be telling
no secret. Mr Wharton knew the state of his feelings as well as
he knew it himself. If ever there was a case in which time might
be abridged, this was one; and therefore he wrote his letter,--
as follows:
3,--Court Temple,
24th July, 187-
MY DEAR MR WHARTON,
It is a matter of great regret to me that we should see
so little of each other,--especially of regret that I
should never see Emily.
I may as well rush into the matter at once. Of course
this letter will not be shown to her, and therefore I may
write as I would speak if I were with you. The wretched
man whom she married is gone, and my love for her is the
same as it was before she had ever seen him, and as it
has always been from that day to this. I could not
address you or even think of her as yet, did I not know
that that marriage had been unfortunate. But it has not
altered her to me in the heart. It has been a dreadful
trouble to us all--to her, to you, to me, and to all
connected with us. But it is over, and I think that it
should be looked back upon as a black chasm which we have
bridged and got over, and to which we never cast back our
eyes.
I have no right to think that, though she might some day
love another man, she would therefore, love me, but I
think that I have a right to try, and I know that I
should have your good-will. It is a question of time,
but if I let time go by, someone else may slip in. Who
can tell? I would not be thought to press indecently,
but I do feel that here the ordinary rules which govern
men and women are not to be followed. He made her
unhappy almost from the first day. She had made a
mistake which you and she and all acknowledged. She has
been punished, and so have I,--very severely I can
assure you. Wouldn't it be a good thing to bring all
this to an end as soon as possible,--if it can be
brought to an end in the way I want?
Pray tell me what you think. I would propose that you
should ask her to see me, and then say just as much as
you please. Of course I should not press her at first.
You might ask me to dinner, and all that kind of thing,
and so she would get used to me. It is not as though we
had not been very, very old friends. But I know you will
do the best. I have put off writing to you till I
sometimes think that I shall go mad over it if I sit
still any longer.
Your affectionate friend,
ARTHUR FLETCHER.
When Mr Wharton got this letter he was very much puzzled. Could
he have had his wish, he too would have left the chasm behind him
as proposed by his young friend, and have never cast an eye back
upon the frightful abyss. He would willingly have allowed the
whole Lopez incident to be passed over as an episode in their
lives, which, if it could not be forgotten, should at any rate
never be mentioned. They had all been severely punished, as
Fletcher had said, and if the matter could end there he would be
well content to bear on his own shoulders all that remained of
the punishment, and to let everything begin again. But he knew
very well it could not be so with her. Even yet it was
impossible to induce Emily to think of her husband without
regret. It had been only too manifest during the last year of
their married life that she had felt horror rather than love
towards him. When there had been a question of his leaving her
behind, should he go to Central America, she had always expressed
herself more than willing to comply with such an arrangement.
She would go with him should he order her to do so, but would
infinitely sooner remain in England. And then too, she had
spoken of him while alive with disdain and disgust, and had
submitted to hear her father describe him as infamous. Her life
had been one long misery, under which she had seemed gradually to
be perishing. Now she was relieved, and her health was re-
established. A certain amount of unjoyous cheerfulness was
returning to her. It was impossible to doubt that she must have
known that a great burden had fallen from her back. And yet she
would never allow his name to be mentioned without giving some
outward sign of affection for his memory. If he was bad, so were
others bad. There were many worse than he. Such were the
excuses she made for her late husband. Old Mr Wharton, who
really thought that in all his experience he had never known
anyone worse than his son-in-law, would sometimes become testy,
and at last resolved that he would altogether hold his tongue.
But he could hardly hold his tongue now.
He, no doubt, had already formed his hopes in regard to Arthur
Fletcher. He had trusted that the man whom he had taught himself
some years since to regard as his wished-for son-in-law, might be
constant and strong enough in his love to forget all that was
past, and to be still willing to redeem his daughter from misery.
But as days had crept on since the scene as the Tenway Junction,
he had become aware that time must do much before such relief
would be accepted. It was, however, still possible that the
presence of the man might do something. Hitherto, since the deed
had been done, no stranger had dined in Manchester Square. She
herself had seen no visitor. She had hardly left the house
except to go to church, and then had been enveloped in the
deepest crape. Once or twice she had allowed herself to be
driven out in a carriage, and, when she had done so, her father
had always accompanied her. No widow, since the seclusion of
widows was first ordained, has been more strict in maintaining
the restraints of widowhood, as enjoined. How then could he bid
her receive a new lover,--or how suggest to her that a lover was
possible? And yet he did not like to answer Arthur Fletcher
without naming some period for the present mourning,--some time
at which he might at least show himself in Manchester Square.
'I have had a letter from Arthur Fletcher,' he said to his
daughter a day or two after he had received it. He was sitting
after dinner, and Everett was also in the room.
'Is he in Hertfordshire?' she asked.
'No;--he is up in town, attending to the House of Commons, I
suppose. He had something to say to me, and as we are not in the
way of meeting he wrote. He wants to come and see you.'
'Not yet, papa.'
'He talked of coming and dining here.'
'Oh yes, pray let him come.'
'You would not mind that?'
'I would dine early and be out of the way. I should be do glad
if you would have somebody sometimes. I shouldn't think then
that I was such a--such a restraint on you.'
But this was not what Mr Wharton desired. 'I shouldn't like
that, my dear. Of course he would know that you were in the
house.'
'Upon my word, I think you might meet an old friend like that,'
said Everett.
She looked at her brother, and then at her father, and burst into
tears. 'Of course you shall not be pressed if it would be
irksome to you,' said her father.
'It is the first plunge that hurts,' said Everett. 'If you could
once bring yourself to do it, you would find afterwards that you
were more comfortable.'
'Papa,' she said slowly. 'I know what it means. His goodness I
shall always remember. You may tell him I say so. But I cannot
meet him yet.' Then they pressed her no further. Of course she
had understood. Her father could not even ask her to say a word
which might give comfort to Arthur as to some long distant time.
He went down to the House of Commons the next day, and saw his
young friend there. Then they walked up and down Westminster
Hall for nearly an hour, talking over the matter with the most
absolute freedom. 'It cannot be for the benefit of anyone,' said
Arthur Fletcher, 'that she should immolate herself like an Indian
widow,--and for the sake of such a man as that! Of course I
have no right to dictate to you,--hardly, perhaps, to give an
opinion.'
'Yes, yes, yes.'
'It does seem to me, then, that you ought to force her out of
that kind of thing. Why should she not go down to
Hertfordshire?'
'In time, Arthur,--in time.'
'But people's lives are running away.'
'My dear fellow, if you were to see her you would know how vain
it would be to try to hurry her. There must be time.'
CHAPTER 66
THE END OF THE SESSION.
The Duke of St Bungay had been very much disappointed. He had
contradicted with a repetition of noes the assertion of the
Duchess that he had been the Warwick who had placed the Prime
Minister's crown on the head of the Duke of Omnium, but no doubt
he felt in his heart that he had done so much towards it that his
advice respecting the vacant Garter, when given so much weight,
should have been followed. He was an old man, and had known the
secrets of Cabinet Councils when his younger friend was a little
boy. He had given advice to Lord John, and had been one of the
first to congratulate Sir Robert Peel when that statesman became
a free-trader. He had sat in conclave with THE Duke, and had
listened to the bold Liberalism of old Earl Grey, both in the
Lower and the Upper House. He had been always great in council,
never giving his advice unasked, nor throwing his pearls before
swine, and cautious at all times to avoid excesses on this side
or that. He had never allowed himself a hobby horse of his own
to ride, had never been ambitious, had never sought to be the
ostensible leader of men. But he did now think that when, with
all his experience, he spoke very much in earnest, some attention
should be paid to what he said. When he had described a certain
line of conduct as Quixotic he had been very much in earnest. He
did not usually indulge in strong language, and Quixotic, when
applied to the conduct of the Prime Minister, was, to his ideas,
very strong. The thing described as Quixotic had now been done,
and the Duke of St Bungay was a disappointed man.
For an hour or two he thought that he must gently secede from all
private counsels with the Prime Minister. To resign, or to put
impediments in the way of his own chief, did not belong to his
character. That line of strategy had come into fashion since he
had learnt his political rudiments, and was very odious to him.
But in all party compacts there must be inner parties, peculiar
bonds, and confidence stricter, stronger and also sweeter than
those which bind together the twenty or thirty gentlemen who form
a Government. From those closer ties which had hitherto bound
him to the Duke of Omnium he thought, for a while, that he must
divorce himself. Surely on such a subject as the nomination of a
Knight of the Garter his advice might have been taken,--if only
because it had come from him! And so he kept himself apart for a
day or two, and even in the House of Lords ceased to whisper
kindly, cheerful words into the ears of his next neighbour.
But various remembrances crowded in upon him by degrees,
compelling him to moderate and at last to abandon his purpose.
Among these the first was the memory of the kiss he had given to
the Duchess. The woman had told him that she loved him, that he
was one of the very few whom she did love,--and the word had
gone straight into his old heart. She had bade him not to desert
her; and he had not only given her his promise, but he had
converted that promise into a sacred pledge by a kiss. He had
known well why she had exacted the promise. The turmoil in her
husband's mind, the agony which he sometimes endured when people
spoke ill of him, the aversion which he had at first genuinely
felt to an office for which he hardly thought himself fit, and
now the gradual love of power created by the exercise of power,
had all been seen by her, and had created that solicitude which
had induced her to ask for the promise. The old Duke had known
them both well, but had hardly as yet given the Duchess credit
for so true devotion to her husband. It now seemed to him that,
though she had failed to love the man, she had given her entire
heart to the Prime Minister. He sympathized with her altogether,
and, at any rate, could not go back from his promise.
And then he remembered, too, that if this man did anything amiss
in the high office which he had been made to fill, who had
induced him to fill it was responsible. What right had he, the
Duke of St Bungay, to be angry because his friend was not all-
wise at all points? Let the Droughts and the Drummonds and the
Beeswaxes quarrel among themselves or with their colleagues. He
belonged to a different school, in the teachings of which there
was less perhaps of excitement and more of long-suffering;--but
surely, also, more of nobility. He was, at any rate, too old to
change, and he would therefore be true to his friend through evil
and through good. Having thought all this out he again whispered
some cheery word to the Prime Minister, as they sat listening to
the denunciations of Lord Fawn, a Liberal lord, much used to
business, but who had not been received into the Coalition. The
first whisper and the second whisper the Prime Minister received
very coldly. He had fully appreciated the discontinuance of
whispers, and was aware of the cause. He had made a selection on
his own unassisted judgment in opposition to his old friend's
advice, and this was the result. Let it be so! All his friends
were turning away from him and he would have to stand alone. If
so, he would stand alone till the pendulum of the House of
Commons had told him that it was time for him to retire. But
gradually the determined good-humour of the old man prevailed.
'He has a wonderful gift of saying nothing with second-rate
dignity,' whispered the repentant friend, speaking of Lord Fawn.
'A very honest man,' said the Prime Minister in return.
'A sort of bastard honesty,--by precept out of stupidity. There
is no real conviction in it, begotten by thought.' This little
bit of criticism, harsh as it was, had the effect, and the Prime
Minister became less miserable than he had been.
But Lord Drummond forgave nothing. He still held his office, but
more than once he was seen in private conference with both Sir
Orlando and Mr Boffin. He did not attempt to conceal his anger.
Lord Earlybird! An old woman! One whom no other man in England
would have thought of making a Knight of the Garter! It was not,
he said, personal disappointment in himself. There were half-a-
dozen peers whom he would have willingly have seen so graced
without the slightest chagrin. But this must have been done
simply to show the Duke's power, and to let the world understand
that he owed nothing and would pay nothing to his supporters. It
was almost a disgrace, said Lord Drummond, to belong to a
Government the Head of which could so commit himself! The
Session was nearly at an end, and Lord Drummond thought that no
step could be conveniently taken now. But it was quite clear to
him that this state of things could not be continued. It was
observed that Lord Drummond and the Prime Minister never spoke to
each other in the House, and that the Secretary of State for
Colonies,--that being the office which he held,--never rose in
his place after Lord Earlybird's nomination, unless to say a word
or two as to his own peculiar duties. It was very soon known to
all the world that there was war to the knife between Lord
Drummond and the Prime Minister.
And, strange to say, there seemed to be some feeling of general
discontent on this very trifling subject. When Aristides had
been much too just the oyster-shells became numerous. It was
said that the Duke had been guilty of pretentious love of virtue
in taking Lord Earlybird out of his own path of life and forcing
him to write K.G. after his name. There came out an article, of
course in the "People's Banner", headed, "Our Prime Minister's
Good Works", in which poor Lord Earlybird was ridiculed in a very
unbecoming manner, and in which it was asserted that the thing
was done as a counterpoise to the iniquity displayed in 'hounding
Ferdinand Lopez to his death'. Whenever Ferdinand Lopez was
mentioned he had always been hounded. And then the article went
on to declare that either the Prime Minister had quarrelled with
all his colleagues, or else that all his colleagues had
quarrelled with the Prime Minister. Mr Slide did not care which
it might be, but, whichever it might be, the poor country had to
suffer when such a state of things was permitted. It was
notorious that neither the Duke of St Bungay nor Lord Drummond
would now even speak to their own chief, so thoroughly were they
disgusted with his conduct. Indeed it seemed that the only ally
the Prime Minister had in his own Cabinet was the Irish
adventurer, Mr Phineas Finn. Lord Earlybird never read a word
of all this, and was altogether undisturbed as he sat in his
chair in Exeter Hall,--or just at this time of the year more
frequently in the provinces. But the Duke of Omnium read it all.
After what had passed he did not dare show it to his brother
Duke. He did not dare to tell his friend that it was said in the
newspapers that they did not speak to each other. But every word
from Mr Slide's pen settled on his own memory, and added to his
torments. It came to be a fixed idea in the Duke's mind that Mr
Slide was a gadfly sent to the earth for the express purpose of
worrying him.
And as a matter of course the Prime Minister in his own mind
blamed himself for what he had done. It is the chief torment of
a person constituted as he was that strong as may be the
determination to do a thing, fixed as may be the conviction that
the thing ought to be done, no sooner has it been perfected than
the objections of others, which before had been inefficacious
become suddenly endowed with truth and force. He did not like
being told by Mr Slide that he ought not to have set his cabinet
against him, but when he had in fact done so, then he believed
what Mr Slide told him. As soon almost as the irrecoverable
letter had been winged on its way to Lord Earlybird, he saw the
absurdity of sending it. Who was he that he should venture to
set aside all the traditions of office? A Pitt or a Peel or a
Palmerston might have done so, because they had been abnormally
strong. They had been Prime Ministers by the work of their own
hands, holding their powers against the whole world. But he,--
he told himself daily he was only there by sufferance, because at
the moment no one else could be found to take it. In such a
condition should he have not have been bound by the traditions of
office, bound by the advice of one so experienced and so true as
the Duke of St Bungay? And for whom had he broken through these
traditions and thrown away this advice? For a man who had no
power whatever to help him or any other Minister of the Crown;--
for one whose every pursuit in life was at variance with the
acquisition of such honours as that now thrust upon him! He
could see his own obstinacy, and could even hate the pretentious
love of virtue which he himself had displayed.
'Have you seen Lord Earlybird with his ribbon?' his wife said to
him.
'I do not know Lord Earlybird by sight,' he replied angrily.
'Nor anyone else either. But he would have come down and shown
it himself to you, if he had a spark of gratitude in his
composition. As far as I can learn you have sacrificed the
Ministry for his sake.'
'I did my duty as best I knew how to do it,' said the Duke,
almost with ferocity, 'and it little becomes you to taunt me with
my deficiency.'
'Plantagenet!'
'I am driven,' he said, 'almost beyond myself, and it kills me
when you take part against me.'
'Take part against you! Surely there was very little in what I
said.' And yet, as she spoke, she repented bitterly that she had
at the moment allowed herself to relapse into the sort of
badinage which had been usual with her before she had understood
the extent of his sufferings. 'If I trouble you by what I say, I
will certainly hold my tongue.'
'Don't repeat to me what that man says in the newspaper.'
'You shouldn't regard the man, Plantagenet. You shouldn't allow
the paper to come into your hands.'
'Am I to be afraid of seeing what men say of me? Never! But you
need not repeat it, at any rate if it be false.' She had not
seen the article in question or she certainly would not have
repeated the accusation it contained. 'I have quarrelled with no
colleague. If such a one as Lord Drummond chooses to think
himself injured, am I to stoop to him? Nothing strikes me so
much in all this as the ill-nature of the world at large. When
they used to bait a bear tied to a stake, everyone around would
cheer the dogs and help torment the helpless animal. It is much
the same now, only they have a man instead of a bear for their
pleasure.'
'I will never help the dogs again,' she said, coming up to him
and clinging him within the embrace of his arm.
He knew that he had been Quixotic, and he would sit in his chair
repeating the word to himself aloud, till he himself began to
fear that he would do it in company. But the thing had been done
and could not be undone. He had had the bestowal of one Garter,
and he had given it to Lord Earlybird! It was,--he told
himself, but not correctly,--the only thing he had done on his
own undivided responsibility since he had been Prime Minister.
The last days of July had passed, and it had been at last decided
that the Session should close on the 11th August. Now the 11th
of August was thought to be a great deal too near the 12th to
allow of such an arrangement being considered satisfactory. A
great many members were angry at the arrangement. It had been
said all through June and into July that it was to be an early
Session, and yet things had been so mismanaged that when the end
came everything could not be finished without keeping members of
Parliament in town on the 11th August! In the memory of the
present legislators there had never been anything so awkward.
The fault, if there was a fault, was attributable to Mr Monk. In
all probability the delay was unavoidable. A minister cannot
control long-winded gentlemen, and when gentlemen are very long-
winded there must be delay. No doubt a strong minister can
exercise some control, and it is certain that long-winded
gentlemen find an unusual scope for their breath when the
reigning dynasty is weak. In that way Mr Monk and the Duke may
have been responsible, but they were blamed as though they, for
their own special amusement, detained gentlemen in town. Indeed
the gentlemen were not detained. They grumbled and growled and
then fled,--but their grumblings and growlings were heard even
after their departure.
'Well;--what do you think of it all?' the Duke said one day to
Mr Monk at the Treasury, affecting an air of cheery good-humour.
'I think,' said Mr Monk, 'that the country is very prosperous. I
don't know that I ever remember trade to have been more evenly
satisfactory.'
'Ah, yes. That's very well for the country, and ought, I
suppose, to satisfy me.'
'It satisfies me,' said Mr Monk.
'And me, in a way. But if you were walking about in a very tight
pair of boots, in agony with your feet, would you be able just
then to relish the news that agricultural wages in that parish
had gone up sixpence a week?'
'I'd take my boots off, and then try,' said Mr Monk.
'That's just what I'm thinking of doing. If I had my boots off
all that prosperity would be so pleasant to me! But, you see,
you can't take your boots off in company. And it may be that you
have a walk before you, and that no boots will be worse for your
feet than tight ones.'
'We'll have our boots off soon, Duke,' said Mr Monk, speaking of
the recess.
'And when shall we be quit of them altogether? Joking apart,
they have to be worn if the country requires it.'
'Certainly, Duke.'
'And it may be that you and I think upon the whole they may be
worn with advantage. What does the country say to that?'
'The country never says the reverse. We have not had a majority
against us this Session on any Government question.'
'But we have had narrowing majorities. What will the House do as
to the Lords' amendments on the Bankruptcy Bill? There was a
bill that had gone down from the House of Commons, but had not
originated with the Government. It had, however, been fostered
by ministers of the House of Lords, and had been sent back with
certain amendments for which the Lord Chancellor had made himself
responsible. It was therefore now almost a Government measure.
The manipulation of this measure had been one of the causes of
the prolonged sitting of the Houses.'
'Grogram says they will take the amendments.'
'And if they don't?'
'Why then,' said Mr Monk, 'the Lords must take our rejection.'
'And we shall have been beaten,' said the Duke.
'Undoubtedly.'
'And simply because the House desires to beat us. I am told Sir
Timothy Beeswax intends to speak and vote against the
amendments.'
'What,--Sir Timothy on one side, and Sir Gregory on the other?'
'So Lord Ramsden tells me,' said the Duke. 'If it be so, what
are we to do?'
'Certainly not go out in August,' said Mr Monk.
When the time came for the consideration of the Lords' amendments
in the House of Commons,--and it did not come till the 8th of
August,--the matter was exactly as the Duke had said. Sir
Gregory Grogram, with a deal of earnestness, supported the Lords'
amendments,--as he was in honour bound to do. The amendment had
come from his chief, the Lord Chancellor, and had indeed been
discussed with Sir Gregory before it had been proposed. He was
very much in earnest;--but it was evident from Sir Gregory's
earnestness that he expected a violent opposition. Immediately
after him rose Sir Timothy. Now Sir Timothy was a pretentious
man, who assumed to be not only an advocate but a lawyer. And he
assumed also to be a political magnate. He went into the matter
at great length. He began by saying that it was not a party
question. The bill, which he had had the honour of supporting
before it went from their own House, had been a private bill. As
such it had received a general support from the Government. It
had been materially altered in the other House under the auspices
of his noble friend on the woolsack, but from those alterations
he was obliged to dissent. Then he said some very heavy things
against the Lord Chancellor, and increased in acerbity as he
described what he called the altered mind of his honourable and
learned friend the Attorney-General. He then made some very
uncomplimentary allusions to the Prime Minister, whom he accused
of being more than ordinarily reserved with his subordinates.
The speech was manifestly arranged and delivered with the express
view of damaging the Coalition, of which at the time he himself
made a part. Men observed that things were very much altered
when such a course as that was taken in the House of Commons.
But that course was taken on this occasion by Sir Timothy
Beeswax, and was so far taken with success that the Lords'
amendments were rejected and the Government was beaten in a thin
House, by a large majority--composed partly of its own men.
'What am I to do?' asked the Prime Minister of the old Duke.
The old Duke's answer was exactly the same as that given by Mr
Monk. 'We cannot resign in August.' And then he went on. 'We
must wait and see how things go at the beginning of next Session.
The chief question is whether Sir Timothy should not be asked to
resign.'
Then the Session was at an end, and they who had been staunch to
last got out of town as quick as the trains could carry them.
CHAPTER 67
MRS LOPEZ PREPARES TO MOVE.
The Duchess of Omnium was not the most discreet woman in the
world. That was admitted by her best friends, and was the great
sin alleged against her by her worst enemies. In her desire to
say sharp things, she would say the sharp thing in the wrong
place, and in her wish to be good-natured she was apt to run into
offences. Just as she was about to leave town, which did not
take place for some days after Parliament had risen, she made an
indiscreet proposition to her husband. 'Should you mind asking
Mrs Lopez down to Matching? We shall only be a small party.'
Now the very name of Lopez was terrible to the Duke's ears.
Anything which recalled the wretch and that wretched tragedy to
the Duke's mind gave him a stab. The Duchess ought to have felt
that any communication between her husband and even the man's
widow was to be avoided rather than sought. 'Quite out of the
question!' said the Duke, drawing himself up.
'Why out of the question?'
'There are a thousand reasons I could not have it.'
'Then I shall say nothing more about it. But there's a romance
there,--something quite touching.'
'You don't mean that she has---a lover?'
'Well;--yes.'
'And she lost her husband only the other day,--lost him in so
terrible a manner? If that is so certainly I do not wish to see
her again.'
'Ah, that is because you don't know the story.'
'I don't wish to know it.'
'The man who wants to marry her knew her long before she had seen
Lopez, and had offered to her so many times. He is a fine
fellow, and you know him.'
'I had rather not hear any more about it,' said the Duke, walking
away.
There was an end to the Duchess's scheme of getting Emily down to
Matching,--a scheme which could hardly have been successful even
had the Duke not objected to it. But yet the Duchess would not
abandon her project of befriending the widow. She had injured
Lopez. She had liked what she had seen of Mrs Lopez. And she
was now endeavouring to take Arthur Fletcher by the hand. She
called therefore at Manchester Square on the day before she
started for Matching, and left a card and a note. This was on
the 15th of August, when London was as empty as it ever is. The
streets at the West End were deserted. The houses were shut up.
The very sweepers of the crossings seemed to have gone out of
town. The public offices were manned by one or two unfortunates
each, who consoled themselves by reading novels at their desks.
Half the cab-drivers had gone apparently to the seaside,--or to
bed. The shops were still open, but all the respectable
shopkeepers were either in Switzerland or at their marine villas.
The travelling world had divided itself into Cookites and
Hookites:--those who escaped trouble under the auspices of Mr
Cook, and those who boldly combatted the extortions of foreign
innkeepers and the Anti-Anglican tendencies of foreign railway
officials 'on their own hooks.' The Duchess of Omnium was
nevertheless in town, and the Duke might still be seen going in
at the back entrance of the Treasury Chambers every day at eleven
o'clock. Mr Warburton thought it very hard, for he, too, could
shoot grouse; but he would have perished rather than have spoken
a word.
The Duchess did not ask to see Mrs Lopez, but left her card and a
note. She had not liked, she said, to leave town without
calling, though she would not seek to be admitted. She hoped
that Mrs Lopez was recovering her health, and trusted that on her
return to town she might be allowed to renew her acquaintance.
The note was very simple, and could not be taken as other than
friendly. If she had been simply Mrs Palliser, and her husband
had been a junior clerk in the Treasury, such a visit would have
been a courtesy; and it was not less so because it was made by
the Duchess of Omnium and by the wife of the Prime Minister. But
yet among all the poor widow's acquaintance she was the only one
who had ventured to call since Lopez had destroyed himself. Mrs
Roby had been told not to come. Lady Eustace had been sternly
rejected. Even old Mrs Fletcher when she had been up in town,
had, after a very solemn meeting with Mr Wharton, contented
herself with sending her love. It had come to pass that the idea
of being immured was growing to be natural to Emily herself. The
longer that it was continued the more did it seem to be
impossible to her that she should break from her seclusion. But
yet she was gratified by the note from the Duchess.
'She means to be civil, papa,'
'Oh yes,--but there are people whose civility I don't want.'
'Certainly. I did not want the civility of that horrid Lady
Eustace. But I can understand this. She thinks that she did
Ferdinand an injury.'
'When you begin, my dear,--and I hope it will be soon,--to get
back to the world, you will find it more comfortable, I think, to
find yourself among your own people.'
'I don't want to go back,' she said, sobbing bitterly.
'But I want you to go back. All who know you want you to go
back. Only don't begin at that end.'
'You don't suppose, papa, that I wish to go to the Duchess?'
'I wish you to go somewhere. It can't be good for you to remain
here. Indeed I shall think it wicked, or at any rate weak, if
you continue to seclude yourself.'
'Where shall I go,' she said imploringly.
'To Wharton. I certainly think you ought to go there first.'
'If you would go, papa, and leave me here,--just this once.
Next year I will go,--if they ask me.'
'When I may be dead, for aught any of us know.'
'Do not say that, papa. Of course anyone may die.'
'I certainly shall not go without you. You may take that as
certain. Is it likely that I should leave you alone in August
and September in this great gloomy house? If you stay, I shall
stay.' Now this meant a great deal than it had meant in former
years. Since Lopez had died Mr Wharton had not once dined at the
Eldon. He came home regularly at six o'clock, sat with his
daughter an hour before dinner, and then remained with her all
the evening. It seemed as though he were determined to force her
out of her solitude by her natural consideration for him. She
would implore him to go to his club and have his rubber, but he
would never give way. No;--he didn't care for the Eldon, and
disliked whist. So he said. Till at last he spoke more plainly.
'You are dull enough here all day, and I will not leave you in
the evenings.' There was a persistent tenderness in this which
she had not expected from the antecedents of his life. When,
therefore, he told her that he would not go into the country
without her, she felt herself almost constrained to yield.
And she would have yielded at once but for one fear. How could
she insure to herself that Arthur Fletcher should not be there?
Of course he would be at Longbarns, and how could she prevent his
coming over from Longbarns to Wharton? She could hardly bring
herself to ask the question of her father. But she felt an
insuperable objection to finding herself in Arthur's presence.
Of course she loved him. Of course in all the world he was the
dearest of all to her. Of course if she could wipe out the past
as with a wet towel, if she could put the crape of her mind as
well as from her limbs, she would become his wife with the
greatest joy. But the very feeling that she loved him was
disgraceful to her in her own thoughts. She had allowed his
caress while Lopez was still her husband,--the husband who had
ill-used her and betrayed her, who had sought to drag her down to
his own depth of baseness. But now she could not endure to think
that the other man should even touch her. It was forbidden to
her, she believed, by all the canons of womanhood eve to think of
love again. There ought to be nothing left for her but crape and
weepers. She had done it all by her own obstinacy, and she could
make no compensation either to her family, or the world, or to
her own feelings, but by drinking the cup of her misery down to
the very dregs. Even to think of joy would in her be a treason.
On that occasion she did not yield to her father, conquering him
as she had conquered him before the pleading of her looks rather
than her words.
But a day or two afterwards he came to her with arguments of a
very different kind. He at any rate must go to Wharton
immediately in reference to a letter of vital importance which he
had received from Sir Alured. The reader may perhaps remember
that Sir Alured's heir--the heir to the title and property--was
a nephew for whom he entertained no affection whatever. This
Wharton had been discarded by all the Whartons as a profligate
drunkard. Some years ago Sir Alured had endeavoured to reclaim
the man, and spent perhaps more money than had been justified in
doing in the endeavour, seeing that, as present occupier of the
property, he was bound to provide for his own daughters, and that
at his death every acre must go to this ne'er-do-well. The money
had been allowed to flow like water for a twelvemonth and had
done no good whatever. There had been no hope. The man was
strong and likely to live,--and after a while had married a
wife, some woman that he took from the very streets. This had
been his last known achievement, and from that moment not even
had his name been mentioned at Wharton. Now there came tidings
of his death. It was said that he had perished in some attempt
to cross some glaciers in Switzerland;--but by degrees it
appeared that the glacier itself had been less dangerous than the
brandy which he had swallowed whilst on his journey. At any rate
he was dead. As to that Sir Alured's letter was certain. And he
was equally certain that he had left no son.
These tidings were quite important to Mr Wharton as to Sir
Alured,--more important to Everett Wharton than to either of
them, as he would inherit all after the death of those two old
men. At this moment he was away yachting with a friend, and even
his address was unknown. Letter for him were to be sent to Oban,
and might, or might not, reach him in the course of a month. But
in a man of Sir Alured's feelings, this catastrophe produced a
great change. The heir to his title and property was one whom he
was bound to regard with affection and almost with reverence,--
if it were only possible for him to do so. With his late heir it
had been impossible. But Everett Wharton he had always liked.
Everett had not been quite all that his father and uncle had
wished. But his faults had been exactly those which could be
cured,--or would almost be virtues,--by the possession of a
title and property. Distaste for a profession and aptitude for
Parliament would become a young man who was heir not only to the
Wharton estates, but to half his father's money.
Sir Alured in his letter expressed a hope that Everett might be
informed instantly. He would have written himself had he known
Everett's address. But he did know that his elder cousin was in
town, and he besought his elder cousin to come at once,--quite
at once,--to Wharton. Emily, he said, would of course accompany
her father on such an occasion. Then there were long letters
from Mary Wharton, and even from Lady Wharton, to Emily. The
Whartons must have been very much moved when Lady Wharton could
be induced to write a long letter. The Whartons were very much
moved. They were in a state of enthusiasm at these news,
amounting almost to fury. It seemed as though they thought that
every tenant and labourer on the estate, and every tenant a
labourer's wife, would be in an abnormal condition and unfit for
the duties of life, till they should have seen Everett as heir to
the property. Lady Wharton went so far as to tell Emily which
bedroom was being prepared for Everett,--a bedroom very
different in honour from any by the occupation of which he had
yet been graced. And there were twenty points as to new wills
and new deeds as to which the present baronet wanted the
immediate advice of his cousin. There were a score of things
which could now be done which were before impossible. Trees
could be cut down, and buildings put up; and a little bit of land
sold, and a little bit of land bought;--the doing of all which
would give new life to Sir Alured. A life interest in an estate
is a much pleasanter thing when the heir is a friend who can be
walked about the property, than when he is an enemy who must be
kept at arm's length. All these delights could now be Sir
Alured's,--if the old heir would give him his counsel and the
young one his assistance.
This change of affairs occasioned some flutter also in Manchester
Square. It could not make much difference personally to old Mr
Wharton. He was, in fact, as old as the baronet, and did not pay
much regard to his own chance of succession. But the position
was one which would suit him admirably, and he was now on good
terms with his son. He had convinced himself that Lopez had done
all that he could to separate them, and therefore found himself
to be more bound to his son than ever. 'We must go at once,' he
said to his daughter, speaking as though he had forgotten her
misery for the moment.
'I suppose you and Everett ought to be there.'
'Heaven knows where Everett is. I ought to be there, and I
suppose that on such an occasion as this you will condescend to
go with me.'
'Condescend, papa;--what does that mean?'
'You know I cannot go alone. It is out of the question that I
should leave you here.'
'Why, papa?'
'And at such a time the family ought to come together. Of course
they will take it very much amiss if you refuse. What will Lady
Wharton think if you refuse afer her writing such a letter as
that? It is my duty to tell you that you ought to go. You cannot
think that is right to throw over every friend that you have in
the world.'
There was a great deal more said in which it almost seemed that
the father's tenderness had worn out. His words were much
rougher and more imperious than any that he had yet spoken since
his daughter had become a widow, but they were also more
efficacious, and therefore probably more salutary. After twenty-
four hours of this she found she was obliged to yield, and a
telegram was sent to Wharton,--by no means the first telegram
that had been sent since the news had arrived,--saying that
Emily would accompany her father. They were to occupy themselves
for two days further in preparations for their journey.
These preparations to Emily were so sad as almost to break her
heart. She had never as yet packed up her widow's weeds. She
had never as yet contemplated the necessity of coming down to
dinner in them before other eyes than those of her father and
brother. She had as yet made none of those struggles with which
widows seek to lessen the deformity of their costume. It was
incumbent on her now to get a ribbon or two less ghastly than
those weepers which had, for the last five months, hung about her
face and shoulders. And then how would she look if he were to be
there? It was not to be expected that the Whartons should
seclude themselves because of her grief. This very change in the
circumstances of the property would be sure, of itself, to bring
the Fletchers to Wharton,--and then how should she look at him,
how answer him, if he spoke to her tenderly? It is very hard for
a woman to tell a lie to a man when she loves him. She may speak
the words. She may be able to assure him that he is indifferent
to her. But when a woman really loves a man, as she loved this
man, there is a desire to touch him which quivers at her fingers'
ends, a longing to look at him which she cannot keep out of her
eyes, an inclination to be near him which affects every motion of
her body. She cannot refrain herself from excessive attention to
his words. She has a god to worship, and she cannot control her
admiration. Of all this Emily herself felt much,--but felt at
the same time that she would never pardon herself if she betrayed
her love by a gleam of her eye, by the tone of a word, or the
movement of a finger. What,--should she be known to love again
after such a mistake as hers, after such a catastrophe?
The evening before they started who should bustle into the house
but Everett himself. It was about six o'clock, and he was going
to leave London by the night mail. That he should be a little
given to bustle on such an occasion may perhaps be forgiven him.
He had heard the news down on the Scotch coast, and had flown up
to London, telegraphing as he did so backwards and forwards to
Wharton. Of course he felt that the destruction of his cousin
among the glaciers,--whether by brandy or ice he did not much
care,--had made him for the nonce one of the important people of
the world. The young man who would not so feel might be the
better philosopher, but one might doubt whether he would be the
better young man. He quite agreed with his father that it was
his sister's duty to go to Wharton, and he was now in a position
to speak with authority as to the duties of the members of his
family. He could not wait, even for one night, in order that he
might travel with them. Sir Alured was impatient. Sir Alured
wanted him in Hertfordshire. Sir Alured had said that on such an
occasion he, the heir, ought to be on the property with the
shortest possible delay. His father smiled;--but with an
approving smile. Everett therefore started by the night mail,
leaving his father and sister to follow him on the morrow.
CHAPTER 68
THE PRIME MINISTER'S POLITICAL CREED.
The Duke, before he went to Matching, twice reminded Phineas Finn
that he was expected there in a day or two. 'The Duchess says
that your wife is coming to-morrow,' said the Duke on the day of
his departure. But Phineas could not go then. His services to
the country were required among the dockyards and ships, and he
postponed his visit till the end of September. Then he started
for Matching, having the double pleasure before him of meeting
his wife and his noble host and hostess. He found a small party
there, but not so small as the Duchess had once suggested to him.
'Your wife will be there, of course, Mr Finn. She is too good to
desert me in my troubles. And there will probably be Lady Rosina
De Courcy. Lady Rosina is to the Duke what your wife is to me.
I don't suppose there will be anybody else,--except, perhaps Mr
Warburton!' But Lady Rosina was not there. In place of Lady
Rosina there were the Duke and Duchess of St Bungay, with their
daughters, two or three Palliser offshoots, with their wives, and
Barrington Erle. There were, too, the Bishop of the diocese with
his wife, three or four others, coming and going, so that the
party never seemed to be too small. 'We asked Mr Rattler,' said
the Duchess in a whisper to Phineas, 'but he declined, with a
string of florid compliments. When Mr Rattler won't come to the
Prime Minister's house, you may depend that something is going to
happen. It is like pigs carrying straws in their mouths. Mr
Rattler is my pig.' Phineas only laughed and said that he did
not believe Rattler to be a better pig than anybody else.
It was soon apparent to Phineas that the Duke's manner to him was
entirely altered, so much so that he was compelled to acknowledge
to himself that he had not hitherto read the Duke's character
aright. Hitherto he had never found the Duke pleasant in
conversation. Looking back he could hardly remember that he had
in truth ever conversed with the Duke. The man had seemed to
shut himself up as soon as he had uttered certain words which the
circumstances of the moment had demanded. Whether it was
arrogance or shyness Phineas had not known. His wife had said
that the Duke was shy. Had he been arrogant the effect would
have been the same. He was unbending, hard, and lucid only when
he spoke on some detail of business, or on some point of policy.
But now he smiled, and, though hesitating a little at first, very
soon fell into the ways of a pleasant country host. 'You shoot,'
said the Duke. Phineas did shoot, but cared very little about
it. 'But you hunt.' Phineas was very fond of riding to hounds.
'I am beginning to think,' said the Duke, 'that I have made a
mistake in not caring for such things. When I was very young I
gave them up, because it appeared that other men devoted too much
time to them. One might as well not eat because men are
gluttons.'
'Only that you would die if you did not eat.'
'Bread, I suppose, would keep me alive, but still one eats meat
without being a glutton. I very often regret the want of
amusements, and particularly of those which would throw me more
among my fellow-creatures. A man is alone when reading, alone
when writing, alone when thinking. Even sitting in Parliament he
is very much alone, though there be a crowd around him. Now a
man can hardly be thoroughly useful unless he knows his fellow-
men, and how is he to know them if he shuts himself up? If I had
to begin again I think I would cultivate the amusements of the
time.'
Not long after this the Duke asked him whether he was going to
join the shooting men on that morning. Phineas declared that his
hands were too full of business for any amusement before lunch.
'Then,' said the Duke, 'will you walk with me this afternoon?
There is nothing I really like so much as a walk. There are some
very pretty points where the river skirts the park. And I will
show you the spot on which Sir Guy de Palliser performed the feat
for which the king gave him this property. It was a grand time
when a man could get half-a-dozen parishes because he tickled the
king's fancy.'
'But suppose he didn't tickle the king's fancy?'
'Ah, then indeed, it might go otherwise with him. But I am glad
to say that Sir Guy was an accomplished courtier.'
The walk was taken, and the pretty bends of the river were seen;
but they were looked at without much earnestness, and Sir Guy's
great deed was not again mentioned. The conversation went away
to other matters. Of course it was not long before the Prime
Minister was deep in discussing the probabilities of the next
Session. It was soon apparent to Phineas that the Duke was no
longer desirous of resigning, though he spoke very freely of the
probable necessity there might be for him to do so. At the
present moment he was in his best humour. His feet were on his
own property. He could see the prosperity around him. The spot
was the one which he loved the best in the world. He liked his
present companion, who was one to whom he was entitled to speak
with freedom. But there was still present to him the sense of
some injury from which he could not free himself. Of course he
did not know that he had been haughty to Sir Orlando, to Sir
Timothy, and others. But he did know that he had intended to be
true, and he thought that they had been treacherous. Twelve
months ago there had been a goal before him which he might
attain, a winning-post which was still within his reach. There
was in store for him the tranquillity of retirement which he
would enjoy as soon as a sense of duty would permit him to seize
it. But now the prospect of that happiness had gradually
vanished from him. That retirement was no longer a winning-post
for him. The poison of place and power and dignity had got into
his blood. As he looked forward he feared rather than sighed for
retirement. 'You think it will go against us?' he said.
Phineas did think so. There was hardly a man high up in the
party who did not think so. When one branch of the Coalition has
gradually dropped off, the other branch will hardly flourish
long. And then the tints of a political Coalition are so neutral
and unalluring that men will only endure them when they feel that
no more pronounced colours are within their reach. 'After all,'
said Phineas, 'the innings has not been a bad one. It has been
of service to the country, and has lasted longer than most
expected.'
'If it has been of service to the country, that is everything.
It should at least be everything. With the statesman to whom it
is not everything there must be something wrong.' The Duke, as
he said this, was preaching to himself. He was telling himself
that, though he saw the better way, he was allowing himself to
walk on that which was worse. For it was not only Phineas who
would see the change,--or the old Duke, or the Duchess. It was
apparent to the man himself, though he could not prevent it. 'I
sometimes think,' he said, 'that we whom chance has led to be
meddlers in the game of politics sometimes give ourselves hardly
time enough to think what we are about.'
'A man may have to work so hard,' said Phineas, 'that he has no
time for thinking.'
'Or more probably, may be so eager in party conflict that he will
hardly keep his mind cool enough for thought. It seems to me
that many men,--men whom you and I know,--embrace the
profession of politics not only without political convictions,
but without seeing that it is proper that they should entertain
them. Chance brings a young man under the guidance of this or
that elder man. He has come of a Whig family, as was my case,--
or from some old Tory stock; and loyalty keeps him true to the
interests which have first pushed him forward into the world.
There is no conviction there.'
'Convictions grow.'
'Yes;--the conviction that it is the man's duty to be a staunch
Liberal, but not the reason why. Or a man sees his opening on
this side or on that,--as is the case with the lawyers. Or he
has a body of men at his back ready to support him on this side
or that, as we see with commercial men. Or perhaps he has some
vague idea that aristocracy is pleasant, and he becomes a
Conservative,--or that democracy is prospering, and he becomes a
Liberal. You are a Liberal, Mr Finn.'
'Certainly, Duke.'
'Why?'
'Well;--after what you have said I will not boast of myself.
Experience, however, seems to show me that Liberalism is demanded
by the country.'
'So, perhaps, at certain epochs, may the Devil and all his works;
but you will hardly say that you will carry the Devil's colours,
because the country may like the Devil. It is not sufficient, I
think, to say that Liberalism is demanded. You should first know
what Liberalism means, and then assure yourself that the thing
itself is good. I dare say you have done so, but I see some who
never make the inquiry.'
'I will not claim to be better than my neighbours,--I mean my
real neighbours.'
'I understand; I understand,' said the Duke laughing. 'You
prefer some good Samaritan on the Opposition benches to Sir
Timothy and the Pharisees. It is hard to come wounded out of the
fight, and then to see him who would be your friend not only
walking by on the other side, but flinging a stone at you as he
goes. But I did not mean just now to allude to the details of
recent misfortunes, though there is no one to whom I could do so
more openly than to you. I was trying yesterday to explain to
myself why I have, all my life, sat on what is called the Liberal
side of the House to which I have belonged.'
'Did you succeed?'
'I began life with the misfortune of a ready-made political
creed. There was a seat in the House for me when I was twenty-
one. Nobody took the trouble to ask me my opinions. It was a
matter of course that I should be a Liberal. My uncle, whom
nothing could ever induce to enter politics himself, took it for
granted that I should run straight,--as he would have said. It
was a tradition of the family, and was a inseparable from it as
any of the titles which he had inherited. The property might be
sold or squandered,--but the political creed was fixed as
adamant. I don't know that I ever had a wish to rebel, but I
think that I took it at first very much as a matter of course.'
'A man seldom inquires very deeply at twenty-one.'
'And if he does it is ten to one but he comes to a wrong
conclusion. But since then I have satisfied myself that chance
put me into the right course. It has been, I dare say, the same
with you as with me. We both went into office early, and the
anxiety to do special duties well probably deterred us both from
thinking much of the great question. When a man has to be on the
alert to keep Ireland quiet, or to prevent peculation in the
dockyards, or to raise the revenue while he lowers the taxes, he
feels himself to be saved from the necessity of investigating
principles. In this way I sometimes think that ministers, or
they who have been ministers and who have to watch the ministers
from the Opposition benches, have less opportunity of becoming
real politicians than the new men who sit in Parliament with
empty hands and with time at their own disposal. But when a man
has been placed by circumstances as I am now, he does begin to
think.'
'And yet you have not empty hands.'
'They are not so full, perhaps, as you think. At any rate I
cannot content myself with a single branch of public service as I
used to in old days. Do not suppose that I claim to have made
any grand political invention, but I think that I have at least
labelled my own thoughts. I suppose what we all desire is to
improve the condition of the people by whom we are employed, and
to advance or country, or at any rate to save it from
regression.'
'That of course.'
'So much is of course. I give credit to my opponents in
Parliament for that desire quite as readily as I do to my
colleagues or to myself. The idea that political virtue is all
on one side is both mischievous and absurd. We allow ourselves
to talk in that way because indignation, scorn, and sometimes, I
fear, vituperation, are the fuel with which the necessary heat of
debate is maintained.'
'There are some men who are very fond of poking the fire,' said
Phineas.
'Well; I won't name anyone at present,' said the Duke, 'but I
have seen gentlemen of your country very handy with the pokers.'
Phineas laughed, knowing that he had been considered by some to
have been a little violent when defending the Duke. 'But we put
all that aside when we really think, and can give the
Conservative credit for patriotism as readily as the Liberal.
The Conservative who has had any idea of the meaning of the name
which he carries, wishes, I suppose, to maintain the differences
and the distances which separate the highly placed from their
lower brethren. He thinks that God has divided the world as he
finds it divided, and that he may best do his duty by making the
inferior many happy and contented in his position, teaching him
that the place which he holds is his by God's ordinance.'
'And it is so.'
'Hardly in the sense that I mean. But that is the great
Conservative lesson. That lesson seems to me to be hardly
compatible with continual improvement in the condition of the
lower man. But with the Conservative all such improvement is to
be based on the idea of the maintenance of those distances. I as
a Duke am to be kept as far apart from the man who drives my
horses as was my ancestor from the man who drove his, or who rode
after him to the wars,--and that is to go on for ever. There is
much to be said for such a scheme. Let the lords be, all of
them, men with loving hearts, and clear intellect, and noble
instincts, and it is possible that they should use their powers
so beneficently as to spread happiness over the earth. It is one
of the millenniums which the mind of man can conceive, and seems
to be that which the Conservative mind does conceive.'
'But the other men who are not lords don't want that kind of
happiness.'
'If such happiness were attainable it might well be to constrain
men to accept it. But the lords of this world are fallible men;
and though as units they ought to be and perhaps are better than
those others who have fewer advantages, they are much more likely
as units to go astray in opinion than the bodies of men whom they
would seek to govern. We know that power does corrupt, and that
we cannot trust kings to have loving hearts, and clear
intellects, and noble instincts. Men as they come to think about
it and to look forward, and to look back, will not believe in
such a millennium as that.'
'Do they believe in any millennium?'
'I think they do after a fashion, and I think that I do myself.
That is my idea of Conservatism. The doctrine of Liberalism is,
of course, the reverse. The Liberal, if he have any fixed idea
at all, must, I think, have conceived the idea of lessening
distances,--of bringing the coachman and the duke nearer
together,--nearer and nearer, till a millennium shall be reached
by--'
'By equality?' asked Phineas, eagerly interrupting the Prime
Minister, and showing his dissent by the tone of his voice.
'I did not use the word, which is open to many objections. In
the first place the millennium, which I have perhaps rashly
named, is so distant that we need not even think of it as
possible. Men's intellects are at present so various that we
cannot even realize the idea of equality, and here in England we
have been taught to hate the word by the evil effects of those
absurd attempts which have been made elsewhere to proclaim it as
a fact accomplished by the scratch of a pen or the chisel of a
stone. We have been injured in that, because a good word
signifying a grand idea has been driven out of the vocabulary of
good men. Equality would be a heaven, if we could attain it.
How can we to whom so much has been given dare to think
otherwise? How can you look at the bowed back and bent legs and
abject face of the poor ploughman, who winter and summer has to
drag his rheumatic limbs to his work, while you go a-hunting or
sit in pride of place among the foremost few of the country, and
say that it is all that it ought to be? You are a Liberal
because you know that it is all not as it ought to be, and
because you would still march on to some nearer approach to
equality; though the thing itself is so great, so glorious, so
godlike,--nay, so absolutely divine,--that you have been
disgusted by the very promise of it, because its perfection is
unattainable. Men have asserted a mock equality till the very
idea of equality stinks in men's nostrils.'
The Duke in his enthusiasm had thrown off his hat, and was
sitting on a wooden seat which they had reached, looking up among
the clouds. His left hand was clenched, and from time to time
with his right he rubbed the thin hairs on his brow. He had
begun in a low voice, with a somewhat slipshod enunciation of his
words, but had gradually become clear, resonant, and even
eloquent. Phineas knew that there were stories told of certain
bursts of words which had come from him in former days in the
House of Commons. These had occasionally surprised men and
induced them to declare that Planty Pall,--as he was then often
called,--was a dark horse. But they had been few and far
between, and Phineas had never heard them. Now he gazed at his
companion in silence, wondering whether the speaker would go on
with his speech. But the face changed on a sudden, and the Duke
with an awkward motion snatched up his hat. 'I hope you ain't
cold?' he said.
'Not at all,' said Phineas.
'I came here because of that bend of the river. I am always very
fond of that bend. We don't go over the river. That is Mr
Upjohn's property.'
'The member for the county?'
'Yes; and a very good member, he is, though he doesn't support
us;--an old-school Tory, but a great friend of my uncle, who,
after all, had a good deal of Tory about him. I wonder whether
he is at home. I must remind the Duchess to ask him to dinner.
You know him, of course.'
'Only by seeing him in the House.'
'You'd like him very much. When he is in the country he always
wears knee breeches and gaiters, which I think is a very
comfortable dress.'
'Troublesome, Duke, isn't it?'
'I never tried it, and I shouldn't dare now. Goodness me, it's
past five o'clock, and we've got two miles to get home. I
haven't looked at a letter, and Warburton will think that I've
thrown myself into the river because of Sir Timothy Beeswax.'
Then they started to go home at fast pace.
'I shan't forget, Duke,' said Phineas, 'your definition of
Conservatives and Liberals.'
'I don't think I ventured any definition;--only a few loose
ideas which have been troubling me lately. I say, Finn!'
'Your Grace?'
'Don't you go and tell Ramsden and Drummond that I've been
preaching equality, or we shall have a pretty mess. I don't know
that it would serve me with my dear friend, the Duke.'
'I will be discretion itself.'
'Equality is a dream. But sometimes one likes to dream,--
especially as there is not danger that Matching will fly from me
in a dream. I doubt whether I could bear the test that has been
attempted in other countries.'
'That poor ploughman would hardly get his share, Duke.'
'No;--that's where it is. We can only do a little, and a little
to bring it nearer to us;--so little that it won't touch
Matching in our day. Here is her ladyship and the ponies. I
don't think her ladyship would like to lose her ponies by my
doctrine.'
The two wives of the two men were in the pony carriage, and the
little Lady Glencora, the Duchess's eldest daughter, was sitting
between them. 'Mr Warburton has sent three messages to demand
your presence,' said the Duchess, 'and as I live by bread, I
believe that you and Mr Finn have been amusing yourselves!'
'We have been talking politics,' said the Duke.
'Of course. What other amusement was possible? But what
business have you to indulge in idle talk when Mr Warburton wants
you in the library? There has come a box,' she said, 'big enough
to contain the resignations of all the traitors of the party.'
This was strong language, and the Duke frowned;--but there was
no one there to hear it but Phineas Finn and his wife, and they,
at least, were trustworthy. The Duke suggested that he had
better get back to the house as soon as possible. There might be
something to be done requiring time before dinner. Mr Warburton
might, at any rate, want to smoke a tranquil cigar after his
day's work. The Duchess therefore left the carriage, as did Mrs
Finn, and the Duke undertook to drive the little girl back to the
house. 'He'll surely go against a tree,' said the Duchess. But,
--as a fact,--the Duke did take himself and the child home in
safety.
'And what do you think about it, Mr Finn?' said her Grace. 'I
suppose you and the Duke have been settling what is to be done?'
'We have certainly settled nothing.'
'Then you must have disagreed.'
'That we as certainly have not done. We have in truth not once
been out of cloud-land.'
'Ah;--then there is no hope. When once grown-up politicians get
into cloud-land it is because the realities of the world have no
longer any charm for them.'
The big box did not contain the resignations of any of the
objectionable members of the Coalition. Ministers do not often
resign in September,--nor would it be expedient that they should
do so. Lord Drummond and Sir Timothy Beeswax were safe, at any
rate till next February, and might live without any show either
of obedience or mutiny. The Duke remained in comparative quiet
at Matching. There was not very much to do, except to prepare
the work of the next Session. The great work of the coming year
was to be the assimilation, or something very near to
assimilation, of the county suffrages with those of the boroughs.
The measure was one which had now been promised by statesmen for
the last two years,--promised at first with that half promise
which would mean nothing, were it not that such promises always
lead to more defined assurances. The Duke of St Bungay, Lord
Drummond, and other Ministers had wished to stave it off. Mr
Monk was eager for its adoption, and was of course supported by
Phineas Finn. The Prime Minister had at first been inclined to
be led by the old Duke. There was no doubt to him but that the
measure was desirable and would come, but there might well be a
question as to the time which it should be made to come. The old
Duke knew that the measure would come,--but believing it to be
wholly undesirable, thought that he was doing good work in
postponing it from year to year. But Mr Monk had become urgent,
and the old Duke had admitted the necessity. There must surely
have been a shade of melancholy on that old man's mind as, year
after year, he assisted in pulling down institutions which he in
truth regarded as safeguards of the nation, but which he knew
that, as a Liberal, he was bound to assist in destroying! It
must have occurred to him, from time to time, that it would be
well for him to depart and be at peace before everything was
gone.
When he went from Matching Mr Monk took his place, and Phineas
Finn, who had gone up to London for a while, returned, and then
the three between them with assistance from Mr Warburton and
others, worked out the proposed scheme of the new county
franchise, with the new divisions and the new constituencies.
But it could hardly have been hearty work, as they all of them
felt that whatever might be their first proposition they would be
beat upon it in a House of Commons which thought that this
Aristides had been long enough at the Treasury.
CHAPTER 69
MRS PARKER'S FATE.
Lopez had now been dead more than five months, and not a word had
been heard by his widow of Mrs Parker and her children. Her own
sorrows had been so great that she had hardly thought of those of
the poor woman who had come to her but a few days before her
husband's death, telling her of the ruin caused by her husband's
treachery. But late on the evening before her departure for
Hertfordshire,--very shortly after Everett left the house,--
there was a ring at the door, and a poorly-clad female asked to
see Mrs Lopez. The poorly-clad female was Sexty Parker's wife.
The servant, who did not remember her, would not leave her alone
in the hall, having an eye to the coats and umbrellas, but called
up one of the maids to carry the message. The poor woman
understood the insult and resented it in her heart. But Mrs
Lopez recognized the name in a moment, and went down to her in
the parlour, leaving Mr Wharton upstairs. Mrs Parker, smarting
from her present grievance, had bent her mind on complaining at
once of the treatment she had received from the servant, but the
sight of the widow's weeds quelled her. Emily had never been
much given to fine clothes, either as a girl or as a married
woman; but it had always been her husband's pleasure that she
should be well dressed,--though he had never carried his trouble
so far as to pay the bills; and Mrs Parker's remembrance of her
friend at Dovercourt had been that of a fine lady in bright
apparel. Now a black shade,--something almost like a dark
ghost,--glided into the room and Mrs Parker forgot her recent
injury. Emily came forward and offered her hand, and was the
first to speak. 'I have had a great sorrow since we met,' she
said.
'Yes, indeed, Mrs Lopez. I don't think there is anything left in
the world now except sorrow.'
'I hope Mr Parker is well. Will you not sit down, Mrs Parker?'
'Thank you, ma'am. Indeed, then, he is not well at all. How
should he be well? Everything,--everything has been taken away
from him.' Poor Emily groaned as she heard this. 'I wouldn't
say a word against them as is gone, Mrs Lopez, if I could help
it. I know it is bad to bear when him who once loved you isn't
no more. And perhaps it is all the worse when things didn't go
well with him, and it was, maybe, his own fault. I wouldn't do
it, Mrs Lopez, if I could help it.'
'Let me hear what you have to say,' said Emily, determined to
suffer everything patiently.
'Well;--it is just this. He has left us that bare that there is
nothing left. And that, they say, isn't the worst of all,--
though what can be worse than doing that, how is a woman to
think? Parker was that soft, and he had that way with him of
talking, that he has talked me and mine out of the very linen on
our backs.'
'What do you mean by saying that that is not the worst?'
'They've come upon Sexty for a bill for four thousand and fifty,
--something to do with that stuff they call Bios,--and Sexty
says it isn't his name at all. But he's been in that state he
don't hardly know how to swear to anything. But he's sure he
didn't sign it. The bill was brought to him by Lopez and there
was words between them, and he wouldn't have nothing to do with
it. How is he to go to law? And it don't make much difference
neither, for they can't take much more from him than they have
already taken.' Emily as she heard all this sat shivering,
trying to repress her groans. 'Only,' continued Mrs Parker,
'they hadn't sold the furniture, and I was thinking they might
let me stay in the house, and try to do with letting lodgings,--
and now they're seizing everything along of this bill. Sexty is
like a mad man, swearing this and swearing that;--but what can
he do, Mrs Lopez? It's as like his hand as two peas; but he was
clever at everything was,--was--you know who I mean, ma'am.'
Then Emily covered her face with her hands and burst into violent
tears. She had not determined whether she did or did not believe
this last accusation made against her husband. She had had
hardly time to realize the criminality of the offence imputed.
But she did believe that the woman before her had been ruined by
her husband's speculations. 'It's very bad, ma'am; isn't it?'
said Mrs Parker, crying for company. 'It's bad all round. If
you had five children as hadn't bread you'd know how I feel.
I've got to go back by the 10.15 to-night, and when I've paid for
a third-class ticket I shan't have but twopence left in this
world.'
This utter depth of immediate poverty, this want of bread for the
morrow and the next day, Emily could relieve out of her own
pocket. And, thinking of this and remembering that her purse was
not with her at the moment, she started up with the idea of
getting it. But it occurred to her that that would not suffice;
that her duty required more of her than that. And yet, by her
own power, she could do no more. From month to month, almost
from week to week, since her husband's death, her father had been
called upon to satisfy claims for money which he would not
resist, lest by doing so he should add to her misery. She had
felt that she ought to bind herself to the strictest personal
economy because of the miserable losses to which she had
subjected him by her ill-starred marriage. 'What would you wish
me to do?' she said, resuming her seat.
'You are rich,' said Mrs Parker. Emily shook her head. 'They
say your papa is rich. I thought you would not like to see me in
want like this.'
'Indeed, indeed, it makes me very unhappy.'
'Wouldn't your papa do something? It wasn't Sexty's fault nigh
so much as it was his. I wouldn't say it to you if it wasn't for
starving. I wouldn't say it to you if it wasn't for the
children. I'd lie in the ditch and die if it was only for
myself, because,--because I know what your feelings is. But
what wouldn't you do, and what wouldn't you say, if you had five
children at home as hadn't a loaf of bread among 'em?' Hereupon
Emily got up and left the room, bidding her visitor wait for a
few minutes. Presently the offensive butler came in, who had
wronged Mrs Parker by watching his master's coats, and brought a
tray with meat and wine. Mr Wharton, said the altered man, hoped
that Mrs Parker would take a little refreshment, and he would be
down himself very soon. Mrs Parker, knowing that strength for
her journey home would be necessary to her, remembering that she
would have to walk all through the city to the Bishopgate Street
station, did take some refreshment, and permitted herself to
drink the glass of sherry that her late enemy had benignantly
poured out for her.
Emily had been with her father nearly half an hour before Mr
Wharton's heavy step was heard upon the stairs. And when he
reached the dining-room door he paused a moment before he
ventured to turn the lock. He had not told Emily what he would do,
and hardly as yet made up his own mind. As every fresh call was
made upon him, his hatred for the memory of the man who had
stepped in and disturbed his whole life, and turned all the
mellow satisfaction of his evening into storm and gloom, was of
course increased. The scoundrel's name was so odious to him that
he could hardly keep himself from shuddering visibly before his
daughter even when the servants called her by it. But yet he had
determined that he would devote himself to save her from further
suffering. It had been her fault, no doubt. But she was
expiating it in very sackcloth and ashes, and he would add
nothing to the burden on her back. He would pay, and pay, and
pay, merely remembering that what he paid must be deducted from
her share of his property. He had never intended to make what is
called an elder son of Everett, and now there was less necessity
than ever that he should do so, as Everett had become an elder
son in another direction. He could satisfy almost any demand
that might be made without material injury to himself. But these
demands, one after another, scalded him by their frequency, and
by the baseness of the man who had occasioned them. His daughter
had now repeated to him with sobbings and wailings the whole
story as it had been told to her by the woman downstairs.
'Papa,' she had said, 'I don't know how to tell you or how not.'
Then he had encouraged her, and had listened without saying a
word. He had endeavoured not even to shrink as the charge of
forgery was repeated to him by his own child,--the widow of the
guilty man. He endeavoured not to remember at the moment that
she had claimed this wretch as the chosen one of her maiden
heart, in opposition to all his wishes. It hardly occurred to
him to disbelieve the accusation. It was so probable! What was
there to hinder the man from forgery, if he could only make it
believed that his victim had signed the bill when intoxicated?
He heard it all;--kissed his daughter, and then went down to the
dining-room.
Mrs Parker, when she saw him, got up, and curtsied low, and then
sat down again. Old Wharton looked at her from under his bushy
eyebrows before he spoke, and then sat opposite her. 'Madam,' he
said, 'this is a very sad story that I have heard.' Mrs Parker
again rose, and again curtsied, and put her handkerchief to her
face. 'It is of no use talking any more about it here.'
'No, sir,' said Mrs Parker.
'I and my daughter leave town early to-morrow morning.'
'Indeed, sir. Mrs Lopez didn't tell me.'
'My clerk will be in London, at No.12, Stone Buildings, Lincoln's
Inn, till I come back. Do you think you can find the place? I
have written it there.'
'Yes, sir, I can find it,' said Mrs Parker, just raising herself
from her chair at every word he spoke.
'I have written his name, you see. Mr Crumpy.'
'Yes, sir.'
'If you will permit me, I will give you two sovereigns now.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'And if you can make it convenient to call on Mr Crumpy every
Thursday morning about twelve, he will pay you two sovereigns a
week till I come back to town. Then I will see about it.'
'God Almighty bless you, sir!'
'And as to the furniture, I will write to my attorney, Mr Walker.
You need not trouble yourself by going to him.'
'No, sir.'
'If necessary, he will send to you, and he will see what can be
done. Good night Mrs Parker.' Then he walked across the room
with two sovereigns which he dropped into her hand. Mrs Parker,
with many sobs, bade him farewell, and Mr Wharton stood in the
hall immoveable till the front door had been closed behind her.
'I have settled it,' he said to Emily. 'I'll tell you to-morrow,
or some day. Don't worry yourself now, but go to bed.' She
looked wistfully,--so sadly, up into his face, and then did as
he bade her.
But Mr Wharton could not go to bed without further trouble. It
was incumbent on him to write full particulars that very night
both to Mr Walker and to Mr Crumpy. And the odious letters in
the writing became very long;--odious because he had to confess
in them over and over again that his daughter, the very apple of
his eye, had been the wife of a scoundrel. To Mr Walker he had
to tell the whole story of the alleged forgery, and in doing so
could not abstain from the use of hard words. 'I don't suppose
that it can be proved, but there is every reason to believe that
it's true.' And again--'I believe the man to have been as vile
a scoundrel as ever was made by the love of money.' Even to Mr
Crumpy he could not be reticent. 'She is an object of pity,' he
said. 'Her husband was ruined by the infamous speculations of Mr
Lopez.' Then he betook himself to bed. Oh, how happy would he
be to pay the two thousand weekly pounds,--even to add to that
the amount of the forged bill, if by doing so he might be saved
from ever hearing again the name of Lopez.
The amount of the bill was ultimately lost by the bankers who had
advanced the money on it. As for Mrs Sexty Parker, from week to
week, and from month to month, and at last from year to year, she
and her children,--and probably her husband also,--were
supported by the weekly pension of two sovereigns which she
always received on Thursday mornings form the hands of Mr Crumpy
himself. In a little time the one excitement of her life was the
weekly journey to Mr Crumpy, whom she came to regard as a man
appointed by Providence to supply her with 40s on Thursday
morning. As to poor Sexty Parker,--it is to be feared that he
never again became a prosperous man.
'You will tell me what you did for that poor woman, papa,' said
Emily, leaning over her father in the train.
'I have settled it, my dear.'
'You said you'd tell me.'
'Crumpy will pay her two pounds a week till we know more about
it.' Emily pressed her father's hand, and that was an end. No
one ever did know any more about it, and Crumpy continued to pay
the money.
CHAPTER 70
AT WHARTON.
When Mr Wharton and his daughter reached Wharton Hall there were
at any rate no Fletchers there as yet. Emily, as she was driven
from the station to the house, had not dared to ask a question or
even to prompt her father to do so. He would probably have told
her that on such an occasion there was but little chance that she
would find any visitors, and none at all that she would find
Arthur Fletcher. But she was too confused and too ill at ease to
think of the probabilities, and to the last was in trepidation,
specially lest she should meet her lover. She found, however, at
Wharton Hall none but Whartons, and she found also to her great
relief that this change in the heir relieved her of much of the
attention which must otherwise have added to her troubles. At
the first glance her dress and demeanour struck them so forcibly
that they could not avoid showing their feeling. Of course they
had expected to see her in black,--had expected to see her in
widow's weeds. But, with her, her very face and limbs had so
adapted themselves to her crape, that she looked like a monument
of bereaved woe. Lady Wharton took the mourner up into her own
room, and there made her a little speech. 'We have all wept for
you,' she said, 'and grieve for you still. But excessive grief
is wicked, especially in the young. We will do our best to make
you happy, and hope we shall succeed. All this about dear
Everett ought to be a comfort to you.' Emily promised that she
would do her best, not, however, taking much immediate comfort
from the prospects of dear Everett. Lady Wharton certainly had
never in her life spoken of dear Everett while the wicked cousin
was alive. Then Mary Wharton also made her little speech. 'Dear
Emily, I will do all that I can. Pray try to believe me.' But
Everett was so much the hero of the hour, that there was not much
room for general attention to anyone else.
There was very much room for triumph in regard to Everett. It
had already been ascertained that the Wharton who was now dead
had had a child,--but that the child was a daughter. Oh,--what
salvation or destruction there may be to an English gentleman in
the sex of an infant! This poor baby was now little better than
a beggar brat, unless the relatives who were utterly disregardful
of its fate, should choose, in their charity, to make some small
allowance for its maintenance. Had it by chance been a boy
Everett Wharton would have been nobody; and the child, rescued
from the iniquities of his parents, would have been nursed in the
best bedroom of Wharton Hall, and cherished with the warmest
kisses, and would have been the centre of all the hopes of the
Whartons. But the Wharton lawyer by use of reckless telegrams
had certified himself that the infant was a girl, and Everett was
the hero of the day. He found himself to be possessed of a
thousand graces, even in his father's eyesight. It seemed to be
taken as a mark of his special good fortune that he had not clung
to any business. To have been a banker immersed in the making of
money, or even a lawyer attached to his circuit and his court,
would have lessened his fitness, or at any rate his readiness,
for the duties which he would have to perform. He would never be
a very rich man, but he would have command of ready money, and of
course he would go into Parliament.
In his new position as,--not quite head of the family, but head
expectant,--it seemed to him to be his duty to lecture his
sister. It might be well that someone should lecture her with
more severity than her father used. Undoubtedly she was
succumbing to the wretchedness of her position in a manner that
was repugnant to humanity generally. There is not power so
useful to a man as that capacity of recovering himself after a
fall, which belongs especially to those who possess a healthy
mind in a healthy body. It is not rare to see one,--generally a
woman,--whom sorrow gradually kills; and there are those among
us, who hardly perhaps envy, but certainly admire, a spirit so
delicate as to be snuffed out by a woe. But it is the weakness
of the heart rather than the strength of the feeling which has in
such cases most often produced the destruction. Some endurance
of fibre has been wanting, which power of endurance is a noble
attribute. Everett Wharton saw something of this, and being,
now, the heir apparent of the family, took his sister to task.
'Emily,' he said, 'you make us all unhappy when we look at you.'
'Do I?' she said. 'I am sorry for that;--but why should you
look at me?'
'Because you are one of us. Of course we cannot shake you off.
We would not if we could. We have all been very unhappy because,
--because of what has happened. But don't you think you ought to
make some sacrifice to us,--to our father, I mean, and to Sir
Alured and Lady Wharton? When you go on weeping, other people
have to weep too. I have an idea that people ought to be happy
if it be only for the sake of neighbours.'
'What am I to do, Everett?'
'Talk to people a little, and smile sometimes. Move about
quicker. Don't look when you come into a room as if you were
consecrating it to tears. And, if I may venture to say so, drop
something of the heaviness of the mourning.'
'Do you mean that I am a hypocrite?'
'No;--I mean nothing of the kind. You know I don't. But you
may exert yourself for the benefit of others without being untrue
to your own memories. I am sure you know what I mean. Make a
struggle and see if you cannot do something.'
She did make a struggle, and she did do something. No one, not
well versed in the mysteries of feminine dress, could say very
accurately what it was that she had done; but everyone felt that
something of the weight was reduced. At first, as her brother's
words came upon her ear, and as she felt the blows which they
inflicted on her, she accused him in her heart of cruelty. They
were very hard to hear. There was a moment in which she was
almost tempted to turn upon him and tell him that he knew nothing
of her sorrows. But she restrained herself, and when she was
alone she acknowledged to herself that he had spoken the truth.
No one has a right to go about the world as Niobe, damping all
joys with selfish tears. What did she not owe to her father, who
had warned her so often against the evil she had contemplated,
and had then, from the first moment after the fault was done,
forgiven her the doing of it? She had at any rate learned from
her misfortunes the infinite tenderness of his heart, which in
the days of the unalloyed prosperity he had never felt the
necessity of expressing to her. So she struggled and did do
something. She pressed Lady Wharton's hand, and kissed her
cousin Mary, and throwing herself in her father's arms when they
were alone, whispered to him that she would try. 'What you told
me, Everett, was quite right,' she said afterwards to her
brother.
'I didn't mean to be savage,' he answered with a smile.
'It was quite right, and I have thought of it, and I will do my
best. I will keep it to myself if I can. It is not quite,
perhaps, what you think it is, but I will keep it to myself.'
She fancied that they did not understand her, and perhaps she was
right. It was not only that he had died and left her a young
widow;--nor even that his end had been so harsh a tragedy and so
foul a disgrace! It was not only that her love had been
misbestowed,--not only that she had made so grievous an error in
the one great act of her life which she had chosen to perform on
her own judgement. Perhaps the most crushing memory of all was
that which told her that she, who had through all her youth been
regarded as a bright star in the family, had been the one person
to bring reproach upon the name of all these people who were so
good to her. How shall a person conscious of disgrace, with a
mind capable of feeling the crushing weight of personal disgrace,
move and look and speak as though the disgrace had been washed
away? But she made the struggle, and did not altogether fail.
As regarded Sir Alured, in spite of the poor widow's crape, he
was very happy at this time, and his joy did in some degree
communicate itself to the old barrister. Everett was taken
round to every tenant and introduced as the heir. Mr Wharton had
already declared his purpose of abdicating any possible
possession of the property. Should he outlive Sir Alured he must
be the baronet; but when that sad event should take place,
whether Mr Wharton should then be alive or no, Everett should at
once be the possessor of Wharton Hall. Sir Alured, under these
circumstances, discussed his own death with extreme satisfaction,
and insisted on having it discussed by the others. That he
should have gone and left everything at the mercy of the
spendthrift had been terrible to his old heart;--but now, the
man coming to the property would have 60,000 pounds with which to
support and foster Wharton, with which to mend, as it were, the
crevices, and stop the holes of the estate. He seemed to be
almost impatient for Everett's ownership, giving many hints as to
what should be done when he himself was gone. He must surely
have thought that he would return to Wharton a spirit, and take a
ghostly share in the prosperity of the farm. 'You will find John
Griffith a very good man,' said the baronet. John Griffith had
been a tenant on the estate for the last half-century, and was an
older man than his landlord; but the baronet spoke of all this as
though he himself were about to leave Wharton for ever in the
course of the next week. 'John Griffith has been a good man, and
if not always quite ready with his rent, has never been much
behind. You won't be hard on John Griffith?'
'I hope I mayn't have the opportunity, sir.'
'Well;--well;--well; that's as may be. But I don't quite know
what to say about young John. The farm has gone from father to
son, and there's never been any word of a lease.'
'Is there anything wrong about the young man?'
'He's a little given to poaching.'
'Oh dear!'
'I've always got him off for his father's sake. They say he's
going to marry Sally Jones. That may take it out of him. I do
like the farms to go from father to son, Everett. It's the way
that everything should go. Of course there's no right.'
'Nothing of that kind, I suppose,' said Everett, who was in his
way a reformer, and had radical notions with which he would not
for worlds have disturbed the baronet at present.
'No;--nothing of that kind. God in his mercy forbid that a
landlord in England should ever be robbed after that fashion.'
Sir Alured, when he was uttering this prayer, was thinking of
what he had heard of in an Irish land bill, the details of which,
however, had been altogether incomprehensible to him. 'But I
have a feeling about it, Everett; and I hope you will share it.
It is good that things should go from father to son. I never
make a promise; but the tenants know what I think about it, and
then the father works on the son. Why should he work for a
stranger? Sally Jones is a very good young woman, and perhaps
John will do better.' There was not field or fence that he did
not show to his heir;--hardly a tree which he left without a
word. 'That bit of woodland coming in there,--they call it
Barnton Spinnies,--doesn't belong to the estate at all.'
'Doesn't it really?'
'And it comes right in between Lane's farm and Paddock's.
They've always let me have the shooting as a compliment. Not
that there's anything in it. It's only seven acres. But I like
the civility.'
'Who does it belong to?'
'It belongs to Benet.'
'What: Corpus Christi?'
'Yes, yes;--they've changed the name. It used to be Benet in my
days. Walker and the College would certainly sell, but you'd
have to pay for the land and the wood separately. I don't know
that you'd get much out of it; but it's unsightly;--on the
survey map, I mean.'
'We'll buy it by all means,' said Everett, who was already
jingling his 60,000 pounds in his pocket.
'I never had the money, but I think it should be bought.' And
Sir Alured rejoiced in the idea that when his ghost should look
at the survey map, that hiatus of Barnton Spinnies would not
trouble his spectral eyes.
In this way months ran on at Wharton. Our Whartons had come down
in the latter half of August, and at the beginning of September
Mr Wharton returned to London. Everett, of course, remained, as
he was still learning the lesson of which he was in truth
becoming a little weary; and at last Emily had also been
persuaded to stay in Hertfordshire. Her father promised to
return, not mentioning any precise time, but giving her to
understand that he would come before the winter. He went, and
probably found that his taste for the Eldon and for whist had
returned to him. In the middle of November old Mrs Fletcher
arrived. Emily was not aware of what was being done; but, in
truth, the Fletchers and Whartons combined were conspiring with a
view of bringing her back to her former self. Mrs Fletcher had
not yielded without some difficulty,--for it was a part of this
conspiracy that Arthur was to be allowed to marry the widow. But
John had prevailed. 'He'll do it anyway, mother,' he had said,
'whether you and I like it or not. And why on earth shouldn't he
do as he pleases?'
'Think what the man was, John!'
'It's more to the purpose to think what the woman is. Arthur has
made up his mind, and if I know him, he's not the man to be
talked out of it.' And so the old woman had given in, and had at
last consented to go forward as the advanced guard of Fletchers,
and lay siege to the affections of the woman whom she had once so
thoroughly discarded from her heart.
'My dear,' she said, when they first met, 'if there has been
anything wrong between you and me, let it be among the things
that are past. You always used to kiss me. Give me a kiss now.'
Of course Emily kissed her; and after that Mrs Fletcher patted
her and petted her, and gave her lozenges, which she declared in
private to be 'the sovereignest thing on earth' for debilitated
nerves. And then it came out by degrees that John Fletcher and
his wife and all the little Fletchers were coming to Wharton for
the Christmas weeks. Everett had gone, but was also to be back
for Christmas, and Mr Wharton's visit was also postponed. It was
absolutely necessary that Everett should be at Wharton for the
Christmas festivities, and expedient that Everett's father should
be there to see them. In this way Emily had no means of escape.
Her father wrote telling her of his plans, saying that he would
bring her back after Christmas. Everett's heirship had made these
Christmas festivities,--which were, however, to be confined to
the two families,--quite a necessity. In all this not a word
was said about Arthur, nor did she dare to ask whether he was
expected. The younger Mrs Fletcher, John's wife, opened her arms
to the widow in a manner that almost plainly said that she
regarded Emily as her future sister-in-law. John Fletcher talked
to her about Longbarns, and the children,--complete Fletcher
talk,--as though she were already one of them, never, however,
mentioning Arthur's name. The old lady got down a fresh supply
of the lozenges from London because those she had by her might
perhaps be a little stale. And then there was another sign which
after a while became plain to Emily. No one in either family
ever mentioned her name. It was not singular that none of them
should call her Mrs Lopez, as she was Emily to all of them. But
they never so described her even in speaking to the servants.
And the servants themselves, as far as possible, avoided that
odious word. The thing was to be buried, if not into oblivion,
yet in some speechless grave. And it seemed that her father was
joined in this attempt. When writing to her he usually made some
excuse for writing also to Everett, or, in Everett's absence, to
the baronet,--so that the letter for his daughter might be
enclosed and addressed simply to 'Emily'.
She understood it all, and though she was moved to continual
solitary tears by this ineffable tenderness, yet she rebelled
against them. They should never cheat her back into happiness by
such wiles as that! It was not fit that she should yield to
them. As a woman utterly disgraced it could not become her again
to laugh and be joyful, to give and take loving embraces, to sit
and smile, perhaps a happy mother, at another man's hearth. For
their love she was grateful. For his love she was more than
grateful. How constant must be his heart, how grand his nature,
how more than manly his strength of character, when he was thus
true to her through all the evil she had done! Love him! Yes;--
she would pray for him, worship him, fill the remainder of her
days with thinking of him, hoping for him, and making his
interests her own. Should he ever be married,--and she would
pray that he might,--his wife, if possible, should be her
friend, his children should be her darlings, and he should always
be her hero. But they should not, with all their schemes, cheat
her into disgracing him by marrying him.
At last her father came, and it was he who told her that Arthur
was expected on the day before Christmas. 'Why did you not tell
me before, papa, so that I might have asked you to take me away?'
'Because I thought, my dear, that it was better that you should
be constrained to meet him. You would not wish to live all your
life in terror of seeing Arthur Fletcher?'
'Not all my life.'
'Take the plunge and it will be over. They have all been very
good to you.'
'Too good, papa. I didn't want it.'
'They are your oldest friends. There isn't a young man in
England I think so highly of as John Fletcher. When I am gone,
where are you to look for friends?'
'I'm not ungrateful, papa.'
'You can't know them all, and yet keep yourself altogether
separate from Arthur. Think what it would be to me never to be
able to ask him to the house. He is the only one of the family
that lives in London, and now it seems that Everett will spend
most of his time down here. Of course it is better that you
should meet him and have done with it.' There was no answer to
be made to this, but still she was fixed in her resolution that
she would never meet him as her lover.
Then came the morning of the day on which he was to arrive, and
his coming was for the first time spoken openly of at breakfast.
'How is Arthur to be brought from the station,' asked old Mrs
Fletcher.
'I'm going to take the dog-cart,' said Everett. 'Giles will go
for the luggage with the pony. He is bringing down a lot of
things;--a new saddle and gun for me.' It had all been arranged
for her, this question and answer, and Emily blushed as she felt
that it was so.
'We shall be glad to see Arthur,' said young Mrs Fletcher to her.
'Of course you will.'
'He has not been down here since the Session was over, and he has
got to be quite a speaking man now. I do so hope he'll become
something some day.'
'I am sure he will,' said Emily.
'Not a judge, however. I hate wigs. Perhaps he might be Lord
Chancellor in time.' Mrs Fletcher was not more ignorant than
some other ladies in being unaware of the Lord Chancellor's wig
and exact position.
At last he came. The 9am express for Hereford,--express, at
least, for the first two or three hours out of London,--brought
passengers for Wharton to the nearest station at 3pm, and the
distance was not above five miles. Before four o'clock Arthur
was standing before the drawing-room fire, with a cup of tea in
his hand, surrounded by Fletchers and Whartons, and being made
much of as the young family member of Parliament. But Emily was
not in the room. She had studied her Bradshaw, and learned the
hours of the trains, and was now in her bedroom. He had looked
around the moment he entered the room, but had not dared to ask
for her suddenly. He had said one word about her to Everett in
the cart, and that had been all. She was in the house, and he
must, at any rate, see her before dinner.
Emily, in order that she might not seem to escape abruptly, had
retired early to her solitude. But she, too, knew that the
meeting could not be long postponed. She sat thinking of it all,
and at last heard the wheels of the vehicle before the door. She
paused, listening with all her ears, that she might recognize his
voice, or possibly his footstep. She stood near the window,
behind the curtain, with her hand pressed to her heart. She heard
Everett's voice plainly as he gave some directions to the groom,
but from Arthur she heard nothing. Yet she was sure that he was
come. The very manner of the approach and her brother's word
made her certain that there had been no disappointment. She
stood thinking for a quarter of an hour, making up her mind how
best they might meet. Then suddenly, with slow but certain step,
she walked down into the drawing-room.
No one expected her then, or something perhaps might have been
done to encourage her coming. It had been thought that she must
meet him before dinner, and her absence till then was to be
excused. But now she opened the door, and with much dignity of
mien walked into the middle of the room. Arthur at that moment
was discussing the Duke's chance for the next session, and Sir
Alured was asking with rapture whether the Conservative party
would not come in. Arthur Fletcher heard the step, turned round,
and saw the woman he loved. He went at once to meet her, very
quickly, and put out both his hands. She gave him hers, of
course. There was no excuse for her refusal. He stood for an
instant pressing them, looking eagerly into her sad face, and
then he spoke. 'God bless you, Emily!' he said. 'God bless
you!' He had thought of no words, and at the moment nothing else
occurred to him to be said. The colour had covered all his face,
and his heart beat so strongly that he was hardly his own master.
She let him hold her two hands, perhaps for a minute, and then,
bursting into tears, tore herself from him, and, hurrying out of
the room, made her way again into her own chamber. 'It will be
better so,' said old Mrs Fletcher. 'It will be better so. Do
not let anyone follow her.'
On that day John Fletcher took her out to dinner, and Arthur did
not sit near her. In the evening he came to her as she was
working close to his mother, and seated himself on a low chair
close to her knees. 'We are all glad to see you; are we not,
mother?'
'Yes, indeed,' said Mrs Fletcher. Then, after a while, the old
woman got up to make a rubber at whist with the two old men and
her elder son, leaving Arthur sitting at the widow's knees. She
would willingly have escaped, but it was impossible that she
should move.
'You need not be afraid of me,' he said, not whispering, but in a
voice which no one else could hear. 'Do not seem to avoid me,
and I will say nothing to trouble you. I think that you must
wish that we should be friends.'
'Oh, yes.'
'Come out, then, to-morrow, when we are walking. In that way we
shall get used to each other. You are troubled now, and I will
go.' Then he left her, and she felt herself to be bound to him
by infinite gratitude.
A week went on and she had become used to his company. A week
passed and he had spoken no word to her that a brother might not
have spoken. They had walked together when no one else had been
within hearing, and yet he had spared her. She had begun to
think that he would spare her altogether, and she was certainly
grateful. Might it not be that she had misunderstood him, and
had misunderstood the meaning of them all? Might it not be that
she had troubled herself with false anticipations? Surely it was
so; for how could it be that such a man should wish to make such
a woman his wife?
'Well, Arthur?' said his brother to him one day.
'I have nothing to say about it,' said Arthur.
'You haven't changed your mind?'
'Never! Upon my word, to me, in that dress, she is more
beautiful than ever.'
'I wish you would make her take it off.'
'I dare not ask her yet.'
'You know what they say about widows generally.'
'That is all very well when one talks about widows in general.
It is easy to chaff about women when one hasn't got any woman in
one's mind. But as it is now, having her here, loving her as I
do,--by Heaven! I cannot hurry her. I don't dare ask to speak
to her after that fashion. I shall do it in time, I suppose;--
but I must wait till the time comes.'
CHAPTER 71
THE LADIES AT LONGBARNS DOUBT.
It came at last to be decided among them that when old Mr Wharton
returned to town,--and he had now been at Wharton longer than he
had ever been known to remain there before,--Emily should still
remain in Hertfordshire, and that at some period not then fixed
she should go for a month to Longbarns. There were various
reasons which induced her to consent to this change of plans. In
the first place she found herself to be infinitely more
comfortable in the country than in the town. She could go out
and move about and bestir herself, whereas in Manchester Square
she could only sit at home. Her father had assured her that he
thought that it would be better that she should be away from the
reminiscences of the house in town. And then when the first week
of February was past Arthur would be up in town, and she would be
far away from him at Longbarns, whereas in London she would be
close within his reach. Many little schemes were laid and
struggles made both by herself and the others before at last
their plans were settled. Mr Wharton was to return to London in
the middle of January. It was quite impossible that he could
remain longer away either from Stone Buildings or from the Eldon,
and then at the same time, or a day or two following, Mrs
Fletcher was to go back to Longbarns. John Fletcher and his wife
and children were already gone;--and Arthur also had been at
Longbarns. The two brothers and Everett had been backwards and
forwards. Emily was anxious to remain at Wharton at any rate
till Parliament should have met, so that she might not be at home
with Arthur in his own house. But matters would not arrange
themselves exactly as she wished. It was at last settled that
she should go to Longbarns with Mary Wharton under the charge of
John Fletcher in the first week in February. As arrangements
were already in progress for the purchase of Barnton Spinnies,
Sir Alured could not possibly leave his own house. Not to have
walked through the wood on the first day it became part of the
Wharton property would to him have been treason to the estate.
His experience ought to have told him that there was no chance of
a lawyer and a college dealing together with such rapidity; but
in the present state of things he could not bear to absent
himself. Orders had already been given for the cutting down of
certain trees which could not have been touched had the reprobate
lived, and it was indispensable that if a tree fell at Wharton he
should see the fall. It thus came to pass that there was a week
during which Emily would be forced to live under the roof of the
Fletchers together with Arthur Fletcher.
The week came and she was absolutely received by Arthur at the
door of Longbarns. She had not been at the house since it had
first been intimated to the Fletchers that she was disposed to
receive with favour the addresses of Ferdinand Lopez. As she
remembered this it seemed to her to be an age ago since that man
had induced her to believe that of all the men she had ever met
he was the nearest to a hero. She never spoke of him now, but of
course her thoughts of him were never ending,--as also of
herself in that she had allowed herself to be so deceived. She
would recall to her mind with bitter inward sobbings all those
lessons of iniquity which he had striven to teach her, and which
had first opened her eyes to his true character--how sedulously
he had endeavoured to persuade her that it was her duty to rob
her father on his behalf, how continually he had endeavoured to
make her think that appearance in the world was everything, and
that, being in truth poor adventurers, it behoved them to cheat
the world into thinking them rich and respectable. Every hint
that had been so given had been a wound to her, and those wounds
were all now remembered. Though since his death she had never
allowed a word to be spoken in her presence against him, she
could not but hate his memory. How glorious was that other man
in her eyes, as he stood there at the door welcoming her to
Longbarns, fair-haired, open-eyed, with bronzed brow and cheek,
and surly the honestest face that a loving woman ever loved to
gaze on. During the various lessons she had learned in her
married life, she had become gradually but surely aware that the
face of that other man had been dishonest. She had learned the
false meaning of every glance of his eyes, the subtlety of his
mouth, the counterfeit manoeuvres of his body,--the deceit even
of his dress. He had been all a lie from head to foot, and he
had thrown her love aside as useless when she also would not be a
liar. And here was this man,--spotless in her estimation,
compounded of all good qualities, which she could now see and
take at their proper value. She hated herself for the simplicity
with which she had been cheated by soft words and a false
demeanour into so great a sacrifice.
Life at Longbarns was very quiet during the days which she passed
there before she left them. She was frequently alone with him,
but he, if he still loved her, did not speak of his love. He
explained it all one day to his mother. 'If it is to be,' said
the old lady, 'I don't see the use of more delay. Of course the
marriage ought not to be till March twelvemonths. But if it is
understood that it is to be, she might alter her dress by
degrees,--and alter her manner of living. These things should
always be done by degrees. I think it had better be settled,
Arthur, if it is to be settled.'
'I am afraid, mother.'
'Dear me! I didn't think you were the man ever to be afraid of a
woman. What can she say to you?'
'Refuse me.'
'Then you had better know at once. But I don't think she'll be
fool enough for that.'
'Perhaps you hardly understand her, mother.'
Mrs Fletcher shook her head with a look of considerable
annoyance. 'Perhaps not. But, to tell you the truth, I don't
like young women whom I can't understand. Young women shouldn't
be mysterious. I like people of whom I can give a pretty good
guess what they'll do. I'm sure I never could have guessed that
she would have married that man.'
'If you love me, mother, do not let that be mentioned between us
again. When I said that you did not understand her, I did not
mean that she was mysterious. I think that before he died, and
since his death, she learned of what sort that man was. I will
not say that she hates his memory, but she hates herself for what
she has done.'
'So she ought,' said Mrs Fletcher.
'She has not yet brought herself to think that her life should be
anything but one long period of mourning, not for him, but for
her own mistake. You may be quite sure that I am in earnest. It
is not because I doubt of myself that I put it off. But I fear
that if once she asserts to me her resolution to remain as she
is, she will feel herself bound to keep her word.'
'I suppose she is very much the same as other women, after all,
my dear,' said Mrs Fletcher, who was almost jealous of the
peculiar superiority of sentiment which her son seemed to
attribute to this woman.
'Circumstances, mother, make people different,' he replied.
'So you are going without having anything fixed,' his elder
brother said to him the day before he started.
'Yes, old fellow. It seems to be rather slack;--doesn't it?'
'I dare say you know best what you're about. But if you have set
your mind on it-'
'You may take your oath on that.'
'Then I don't see why one word shouldn't put it all right. There
never is any place so good for that kind of thing as a country
house.'
'I don't think that with her it will make much difference where
the house is, or what the circumstances.'
'She knows what you mean as well as I do.'
'I dare say she does, John. She must have a very bad idea of me
if she doesn't. But she may know what I mean and not mean the
same thing herself.'
'How are you to know if you don't ask her?'
'You may be sure that I shall ask her as soon as I can hope that
my doing so may give her more pleasure than pain. Remember, I
have had all this out with her father. I have determined that I
will wait till twelve months have passed since that wretched man
perished.'
On that afternoon before dinner he was alone with her in the
library some minutes before they went up to dress for dinner. 'I
shall hardly see you to-morrow,' he said, 'as I must leave this
at half-past eight. I breakfast at eight. I don't suppose
anyone will be down except my mother.'
'I am generally as early as that. I will come down and see you
start.'
'I am so glad that you have been here, Emily.'
'So am I. Everybody has been so good to me.'
'It has been like old days,--almost.'
'It will never quite be like old days again, I think. But I have
been very glad to be here;--and at Wharton. I sometimes almost
wish that I were never going back to London again,--only for
papa.'
'I like London myself.'
'You! Yes, of course you like London. You have everything in
life before you. You have things to do, and much to hope for.
It is all beginning for you, Arthur.'
'I am five years older than you are.'
'What does that matter? It seems to me that age does not go by
years. It is long since I have felt myself to be an old woman.
But you are quite young. Everybody is proud of you, and you
ought to be happy.'
'I don't know,' said he, 'it is hard to say what makes a person
happy.' He almost made up his mind to speak to her then; but he
had made up his mind before to put it off still for a little
time, and he would not allow himself to be changed on the spur of
the moment. He had thought of it much, and he had almost taught
himself to think that it would be better for herself that she
should not accept another man's love so soon. 'I shall come and
see you in town,' he said.
'You must come and see papa. It seems to me that Everett is to
be a great deal at Wharton. I had better go up to dress now, or
I shall be keeping them waiting.' He put his hand to her, and
wished her good-bye, excusing himself by saying that they should
not be alone together before he started.
She saw him go on the next morning,--and then she almost felt
herself to be abandoned, almost deserted. It was a fine crisp
winter day, dry and fresh, and clear, but with the frost still on
the ground. After breakfast she went out to walk by herself in
the long shrubbery paths which went round the house, and here she
remained for above an hour. She told herself that she was very
thankful to him for not having spoken to her on a subject so
unfit for her ears as love. She strengthened herself in her
determination never again to listen to a man willingly on that
subject. She had made herself quite unfit to have any dealings
of that nature. It was not that she could not love. Oh no! She
knew well enough that she did love,--love will all her heart. If
it were not that she were so torn to rags that she was not fit to be
worn again, she could now have thrown herself into his arms with
a whole heaven of joy before her. A woman, she told herself, had
no right to a second chance in life, after having made a
shipwreck of herself in the first. But the danger of being
seduced from her judgement by Arthur Fletcher was all over. He
had been near her for the last week and had not spoken a word.
He had been in the same house with her for the last ten days and
had been with her as a brother might be with his sister. It was
not only she who had seen the propriety of this. He also had
acknowledged it, and she was--grateful to him. As she
endeavoured in her solitude to express her gratitude in spoken
words the tears rolled down her cheeks. She was glad, she told
herself, very glad that it was so. How much trouble and pain to
both of them would thus be spared! And yet her tears were bitter
tears. It was better as it was;--and yet one word of love would
have been very sweet. She almost thought that she would have
liked to tell him that for his sake, for his dear sake, she would
refuse--that which now would never be offered to her. She was
quite clear as to the rectitude of her own judgement, clear as
ever. And yet her heart was heavy with disappointment.
It was the end of March before she left Hertfordshire for London,
having spent the greater part of the time at Longbarns. The
ladies at that place were moved by many doubts as to what would
be the end of all this. Mrs Fletcher the elder at last almost
taught herself to believe that there would be no marriage, and
having got back to that belief, was again opposed to the idea of
marriage. Anything and everything that Arthur wanted he ought to
have. The old lady felt no doubt as to that. When convinced
that he did not want to have the widow,--this woman whose life
had hitherto been so unfortunate,--she had for his sake taken
the woman again by the hand, and had assisted in making her one
of themselves. But how much better it would it be that Arthur
should think better of it! It was the maddest constancy,--this
clinging to the widow of such a man as Ferdinand Lopez! If there
were any doubt, then she would be prepared to do all she could to
prevent the marriage. Emily had been forgiven, and the pardon
bestowed must of course be continued. But she might be pardoned
without being made Mrs Arthur Fletcher. While Emily was still at
Longbarns the old lady almost talked over her daughter-in-law to
this way of thinking,--till John Fletcher put his foot upon it
altogether. 'I don't pretend to say what she may do,' he said.
'Oh, John,' said his mother, 'to hear a man like you talk like
that is absurd. She'd jump at him if he looked at her with half
an eye.'
'What she may do,' he continued saying, without appearing to
listen to his mother, 'I cannot say. But that he will ask her to
be his wife is as certain as I stand here.'
CHAPTER 72
'HE THINKS THAT OUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED.'
All the details of the new County Suffrage Bill were settled at
Matching during the recess between Mr Monk, Phineas Finn, and a
very experienced man from the Treasury, one Mr Prime, who was
supposed to know more about such things than any man living, and
was consequently called Constitution Charlie. He was an elderly
man, over sixty years of age, who remembered the Reform Bill, and
had been engaged in the doctoring of constituencies ever since.
The bill, if passed, would be mainly his bill, and yet the world
would never hear his name connected with it. Let us hope that
he was comfortable at Matching, and that he found his consolation
in the smiles of the Duchess. During this time the old Duke was
away, and even the Prime Minister was absent for some days. He
would fain have busied himself about the bill himself, but was
hardly allowed by his colleagues to have any hand in framing it.
The great points of the measure had of course been arranged in
the Cabinet,--where, however, Mr Monk's views had been adopted
almost without a change. It may not perhaps be too much to
assume that one or two members of the Cabinet did not quite
understand the full scope of every suggested clause. The effects
which causes will produce, the dangers which may be expected from
this or that change, the manner in which this or that proposition
will come out in the washing, do not strike even Cabinet
Ministers at a glance. A little study in a man's own cabinet,
after perhaps reading a few leading articles, and perhaps a
short conversation with an astute friend or two, will enable a
statesman to be strong at a given time for, or ever, if
necessary, against a measure, who has listened in silence, and
has perhaps given his personal assent, to the original
suggestion. I doubt whether Lord Drummond, when he sat silent in
the Cabinet, had realized those fears which weighed upon him so
strongly afterwards, or had then foreseen that the adoption of a
nearly similar franchise for the counties and boroughs must
inevitably lead to the American system of numerical
representation. But when time had been given him, and he and Sir
Timothy Beeswax had talked it all over, the mind of no man was
ever clearer than that of Lord Drummond.
The Prime Minister, with the diligence which belonged to him, had
mastered all the details of Mr Monk's bill before it was
discussed in the Cabinet, and yet he found that his assistance
was hardly needed in the absolute preparation. Had they allowed
him he would have done it all himself. But it was assumed that
he would not trouble himself with such work, and he perceived
that he was not wanted. Nothing of moment was settled without
reference to him. He required that everything should be
explained as it went on, down to the extension of every borough
boundary; but he knew that he was not doing it himself, and that
Mr Monk and Constitution Charlie had the prize between them.
Nor did he dare ask Mr Monk what would be the fate of the bill.
To devote all one's time and mind and industry to a measure which
one knows will fall to the ground must be sad. Work under such
circumstances must be very grievous. But such is often the fate
of statesmen. Whether Mr Monk laboured under such a conviction
the Prime Minister did not know, though he saw his friend and
colleague almost daily. In truth no one dared to tell him
exactly what he thought. Even the old Duke had become partially
reticent, and taken himself off to his own woods at Long Royston.
To Phineas Finn the Prime Minister would sometimes say a word,
but would say even that timidly. On any abstract question, such
as that which he had discussed when they had been walking
together, he could talk freely enough. But on the matter of the
day, those affairs which were of infinite importance to himself,
and on which one would suppose he would take delight in speaking
to a trusted colleague, he could not bring himself to be open.
'It must be a long bill, I suppose?'
'I'm afraid so, Duke. It will run, I fear, to over a hundred
clauses.'
'It will take the best part of the Session to get through it?'
'If we can have the second reading early in March, we hope to
send it up to you in the first week in June. That will give us
ample time.'
'Yes;--yes. I suppose so.' But he did not dare to ask Phineas
Finn whether he thought that the House of Commons would assent to
the second reading. It was known at this time that the Prime
Minister was painfully anxious to the fate of the Ministry. It
seemed to be but the other day that everybody connected with the
Government was living in fear lest he should resign. His threats
in that direction had always been made to his old friend the Duke
of St Bungay; but a great man cannot whisper his thoughts without
having them carried in the air. In all the clubs it had been
declared that that was the rock by which the Coalition would
probably be wrecked. The newspapers had repeated the story, and
the "People's Banner" had assured the world that if it were so
the Duke of Omnium would thus do for his country the only good
service which it was possible that he should render it. That was
the time when Sir Orlando was mutinous and when Lopez had
destroyed himself. But now no such threat came from the Duke,
and the "People's Banner" was already accusing him of clinging to
power with pertinacious and unconstitutional tenacity. Had not
Sir Orlando deserted him? Was it not well known that Lord
Drummond and Sir Timothy Beeswax were only restrained from doing
so by a mistaken loyalty?
Everybody came up to town, Mr Monk having his bill in his pocket,
and the Queen's speech was read, promising the County Suffrage
Bill. The address was voted with a very few words from either
side. The battle was not to be fought then. Indeed, the state
of things was so abnormal that there could hardly be said to be
any sides in the House. A stranger in the gallery, not knowing
the condition of affairs, would have thought that no minister had
for many years commanded so large a majority, as the crowd of
members was always on the Government side of the House; but the
opposition which Mr Monk expected would, he knew, come from those
who sat around him, behind him, and even at his very elbow.
About a week after Parliament met the bill was read for the first
time, and the second reading was appointed for an early day in
March.
The Duke had suggested to Mr Monk the expedience of some further
delay, giving his reason the necessity of getting through certain
routine work, should the rejection of the bill create the
confusion of a resignation. No one who knew the Duke could ever
suspect him of giving a false reason. But it seemed that in this
the Prime Minister was allowing himself to be harassed by fears
of the future. Mr Monk thought that any delay would be injurious
and open to suspicion after what had been said and done, and was
urgent in his arguments. The Duke gave way, but he did so almost
sullenly, signifying his acquiescence with haughty silence. 'I
am sorry,' said Mr Monk, 'to differ from your Grace, but my
opinion in the matter is so strong that I do not dare to abstain
from expressing it.' The Duke bowed again and smiled. He had
intended that the smile should be acquiescent, but it had been as
cold as steel. He knew that he was misbehaving, but was not
sufficiently master of his own manner to be gracious. He told
himself on the spot,--though he was quite wrong in so telling
himself,--that he had now made an enemy also of Mr Monk, and
through Mr Monk of Phineas Finn. And now he felt that he had no
friend left in whom he could trust,--for the old Duke had become
cold and indifferent. The old Duke, he thought, was tired of his
work and anxious to rest. It was the old Duke who had brought
him into this hornet's nest; had fixed upon his back the unwilling
load; had compelled him to assume the place which now to lose
would be a disgrace,--and the old Duke was now deserting him!
He was sore all over, angry with everyone, ungracious even with
his private Secretary and his wife,--and especially miserable
because he was thoroughly aware of his own faults. And yet,
through it all, there was present to him a desire to fight on to
the very last. Let his colleagues do what they might, and say
what they might, he would remain Prime Minister of England as
long as he was supported by a majority in the House of Commons.
'I do not know any greater ship than this,' Phineas said to him
pleasantly one day, speaking of their new measure, 'towards that
millennium of which we were talking at Matching, if we can only
accomplish it.'
'Those moral speculations, Mr Finn,' he said, 'will hardly beat
the wear and tear of real life.' The words of the answer,
combined with the manner in which they were spoken, were stern
and almost uncivil. Phineas, at any rate, had done nothing to
offend him. The Duke paused, trying to find some expression by
which he might correct the injury he had done, but, not finding
any, passed on without further speech. Phineas shrugged his
shoulders and went his way, telling himself that he had received
one further injunction not to put his trust in princes.
'We shall be beaten certainly,' said Mr Monk to Phineas not long
afterwards.
'What makes you so sure?'
'I smell it in the air. I see it in men's faces.'
'And yet it's a moderate bill. They'll have to pass something
stronger before long if they throw it out now.'
'It's not the bill that they'll reject, but us. We have served
our turn, and we ought to go.'
'The House is tired of the Duke?'
'The Duke is so good a man that I hardly like to admit even that,
--but I fear it is so. He is fretful and he makes enemies.'
'I sometimes think that he is ill.'
'He is ill at ease and sick at heart. He cannot hide his
chagrin, and then is double wretched because he has betrayed it.
I do not know that I ever respected, and, at the same time, pitied a
man more thoroughly.'
'He snubbed me awfully yesterday,' said Phineas.
'He cannot help himself. He snubs me at every word that he
speaks; yet I believe that is most anxious to be civil to me.
His ministry has been of great service to the country. For
myself, I shall never regret having joined it. But I think that
to him it has been a continual sorrow.'
The system on which the Duchess had commenced her career as wife
of the Prime Minister had now been completely abandoned. In the
first place, she had herself become so weary of it that she had
been unable to continue the exertion. She had, too, become in
some degree ashamed of her failures. The names of Major Pountney
and Mr Lopez were not now pleasant to her ears, nor did she look
back with satisfaction on the courtesies she had lavished on Sir
Orlando or the smiles she had given to Sir Timothy Beeswax.
'I've known a good many vulgar people in my time,' she said one
day to Mrs Finn, 'but none ever so vulgar as our ministerial
supporters. You don't remember Mr Bott, my dear. He was before
your time;--one of the arithmetical men, a great friend of
Plantagenet's. He was very bad, but there have come up worse
since him. Sometimes, I think, I like a little vulgarity for a
change; but, upon my honour, when we get rid of all this it will
be a pleasure to go back to ladies and gentlemen.' This the
Duchess said in extreme bitterness.
'It seems to me that you have pretty well got rid of "all this"
already.'
'But I haven't got anybody else in their place. I have almost
made up my mind not to ask anyone into the house for the next
twelve months. I used to think that nothing would ever knock me
up, but now I feel that I'm almost done for. I hardly dare open
my mouth to Plantagenet. The Duke of St Bungay has cut me. Mr
Monk looks as ominous as an owl; and your husband hasn't a word
to say left. Barrington Erle hides his face and passes by when
he sees me. Mr Rattler did try to comfort me the other day by
saying that everything was at sixes and sevens, and I really took
it almost as a compliment to be spoken to. Don't you think
Plantagenet is ill?'
'He is careworn.'
'A man may be worn by care till there comes to be nothing left of
him. But he never speaks of giving up now. The old Bishop of St
Austell talks of resigning, and he has already made up his mind
who is to have the see. He used to consult the Duke about all
these things, but I don't think he ever consults anyone now. He
never forgave the Duke about Lord Earlybird. Certainly, if a man
wants to quarrel with all his friends, and to double the hatred
of all his enemies, he had better become Prime Minister.'
'Are you really sorry that such was his fate, Lady Glen?'
'Ah,--I sometimes ask myself that question, but I never get an
answer. I should have thought him a poltroon if he had declined.
It is to be the greatest man in the greatest country in the
world. Do ever so little and the men who write history must
write about you. And no man ever tried to be nobler than he till
--till--'
'Make no exception. If he be careworn and ill and weary, his
manners cannot be the same as they were, but his purity is the
same as ever.'
'I don't know that it would remain so. I believe in him, Marie,
more than in any man,--but I believe in none thoroughly. There
is a devil creeps in upon them when their hands are strengthened.
I do not know what I would have wished. Whenever I do wish, I
always wish wrong. Ah, me; when I think of all those people I
had down at Gatherum,--of the trouble I took, and of the
glorious anticipations in which I revelled, I do feel ashamed of
myself. Do you remember when I was determined that that wretch
should be member for Silverbridge?'
'You haven't seen her since, Duchess?'
'No; but I mean to see her. I couldn't make her first husband
member, and therefore the man who is member is to be her second
husband. But I'm almost sick of schemes. Oh dear, I wish I knew
something that was really pleasant to do. I have never really
enjoyed anything since I was in love, and I only liked that
because it was wicked.'
The Duchess was wrong in saying that the Duke of St Bungay had
cut them. The old man still remembered the kiss and still
remembered the pledge. But he had found it very difficult to
maintain his old relations with his friend. It was his opinion
that the Coalition had done all that was wanted from it, and that
now had come the time when they might retire gracefully. It is,
no doubt, hard for a Prime Minister to find an excuse for going.
But if the Duke of Omnium would have been content to acknowledge
that he was not the man to alter the County Suffrage, an excuse
might have been found that would have been injurious to no one.
Mr Monk and Mr Gresham might have joined, and the present Prime
Minister might have resigned, explaining that he had done all
that he had been appointed to accomplish. He had, however,
yielded at once to Mr Monk, and now it was to be feared that the
House of Commons would not accept the bill from his hands. In
such a state of things,--especially after that disagreement
about Lord Earlybird,--it was difficult for the old Duke to
tender his advice. He was at every Cabinet Council; he always
came when his presence was required; he was invariably good-
humoured;--but it seemed to him that his work was done. He
could hardly volunteer to tell his chief and his colleague that
he would certainly be beaten in the House of Commons, and that
therefore there was little more now to be done than to arrange
the circumstances of their retirement. Nevertheless, as the
period of the second reading of the bill came on, he resolved
that he would discuss the matter with his friend. He owed it to
himself to do so, and he owed it to the man whom he had certainly
placed in his present position. On himself politics had imposed
a burden very much lighter than that which they had inflicted on
his more energetic and much less practical colleague. Through
his long life he had either been in office, or in such a position
that men were sure that he would soon return to it. He had taken
it, when it had come, willingly, and had always left without a
regret. As a man cuts in and out at a whist table, and enjoys
the game and the rest from the game, so had the Duke of St Bungay
been well pleased in either position. He was patriotic; but his
patriotism did not disturb his digestion. He had been ambitious,
--but moderately ambitious, and his ambition had been gratified.
It never occurred to him to be unhappy because he or his party
were beaten on a measure. When President of the Council, he
would do his duty and enjoy London life. When in opposition, he
could linger in Italy till May and devote his leisure to his
trees and his bullocks. He was always esteemed, always self-
satisfied, and always Duke of St Bungay. But with our Duke it
was very different. Patriotism with him was a fever, and the
public service an exacting mistress. As long as this had been
all he had still been happy. Not trusting in himself, he had never
aspired to great power. But now, now at last, ambition had laid
hold of him,--and the feeling, not perhaps uncommon with such
men, that personal dishonour attached to personal failure. What
would his future life be if he had so carried himself in his
great office as to have shown himself to be unfit to resume it?
Hitherto any office had sufficed him in which he might be useful;
--but now he must either be Prime Minister, or a silent, obscure,
and humbled man!
DEAR DUKE,
I will be with you to-morrow morning at 11am, if you can
give me half-an-hour.
Yours affectionately,
ST. B.
The Prime Minister received this note one afternoon, a day or two
before that appointed for the second reading, and meeting his
friend within an hour in the House of Lords, confirmed the
appointment. 'Shall I not rather come to you?' he said. But the
old Duke, who lived in St James's Square, declared that Carlton
Terrace would be on his way to Downing Street, and so the matter
was settled. Exactly at eleven the two Ministers met. 'I don't
like troubling you,' said the old man, 'when I know that you have
so much to think of.'
'On the contrary, I have but little to think of,--and my
thoughts must be very much engaged, indeed, when they shall be
too full to admit of seeing you.'
'Of course we are all anxious about this bill.' The Prime
Minister smiled. Anxious! Yes, indeed. His anxiety was of such
a nature that it kept him awake all night, and never for a moment
left his mind free by day. 'And of course we must be prepared as
to what shall be done either in the event of success or failure.'
'You might as well read that,' said the other. 'It only reached
me this morning, or I should have told you of it.' The letter
was a communication from the Solicitor-General containing his
resignation. He had now studied the County Suffrage Bill closely,
and regretted to say that he could not give it conscientious
support. It was a matter of sincerest sorrow to him that his
relations so pleasant should be broken, but he must resign his
place, unless, indeed, the clauses as to redistribution could be
withdrawn. Of course he did not say this as expecting any such
concession would be made to his opinion, but merely as indicating
the matter on which his objection was so strong as to over-rule
all other considerations. All this he explained at great length.
'The pleasantness of the relations must have all been on one
side,' said the veteran. 'He ought to have gone a long time
since.'
'And Lord Drummond has already as good as said that unless we
will abandon the same clauses, he must oppose the bill in the
Lords.'
'And resign, of course.'
'He meant that, I presume. Lord Ramsden has not spoken to me.'
'The clauses will not stick in his throat. Nor ought they. If
the lawyers have their own way about the law they should be
contented.'
'The question is, whether in these circumstances we should
postpone the second reading?' asked the Prime Minister.
'Certainly not,' said the other Duke. 'As to the Solicitor-
General you will have no difficulty. Sir Timothy was only placed
there as a concession to his party. Drummond will no doubt
continue to hold his office till we see what is done in the Lower
House. If the second reading be lost there,--why, then his
lordship can go with the rest of us.'
'Rattler says we shall have a majority. He and Roby are quite
agreed about it. Between them they must know,' said the Prime
Minister, unintentionally pleading for himself.
'They ought to know, if any men do;--but the crisis is
exceptional. I suppose you think that if the second reading is
lost we should resign?'
'Oh;--certainly.'
'Or, after that, if the bill is much mutilated in Committee? I
don't know that I shall personally break my own heart about the
bill. The existing difference in the suffrages is rather in
accordance with my prejudices. But the country desires the
measure, and I suppose we cannot consent to any material
alteration as these men suggest.' As he spoke he laid his hand
on Sir Timothy's letter.
'Mr Monk would not hear of it,' said the Prime Minister.
'Of course not. And you and I in this measure must stick to Mr
Monk. My great, indeed my only strong desire in the matter, is
to act in unison with you.'
'You are always good and true, Duke.'
'For my own part, I shall not in the least regret to find in all
this an opportunity for resigning. We have done our work, and
if, as I believe, a majority of the House would again support
either Gresham or Monk as the head of the entire Liberal party, I
think that that arrangement would be for the welfare of the
country.'
'Why should it make any difference to you? Why should you not
return to the Council?'
'I should not do so;--certainly not at once, probably never.
But you,--who are in the very prime of your life--'
The Prime Minister did not smile now. He knit his brows and a
dark shadow came across his face. 'I don't think I could do
that,' he said. 'Caesar would hardly have led a legion under
Pompey.'
'It has been done, greatly to the service of the country, and
without the slightest loss of honour or character in him who did
it.'
'We need hardly talk of that, Duke. You think then that we shall
fail;--fail, I mean in the House of Commons. I do not know that
failure in our House should be regarded as fatal.'
'In three cases we should fail. The loss of any material clause
in Committee would be as bad as the loss of the bill.'
'Oh yes.'
'And then, in spite of Messrs Rattler and Roby,--who have been
wrong before and may be wrong now,--we may lose the second
reading.'
'And the third chance against us?'
'You would not probably try to carry on the bill with a very
small majority.'
'Not with three or four.'
'Nor, I think, with six or seven. It would be useless. My own
belief is that we shall never carry the bill into Committee.'
'I have always known you to be right, Duke.'
'I think that the general opinion has set in that direction, and
general opinion is generally right. Having come to that
conclusion I thought it best to tell you, in order that we might
have our house in order.' The Duke of Omnium, with all his
haughtiness and all his reserve, was the simplest man in the
world and the least apt to pretend to be that which he was not,
sighed deeply when he heard this. 'For my own part,' continued
the elder, 'I feel no regret that it should be so.'
'It is the first large measure that we have tried to carry.'
'We did not come in to carry large measures, my friend. Look
back and see how many large measures Pitt carried;--but he took
the country safely through its most dangerous crisis.'
'What have we done?'
'Carried on the Queen's Government prosperously for three years.
Is that nothing for a minister to do? I have never been a friend
of great measures, knowing that when they come fast, one after
another, more is broken in the rattle than is repaired by the
reform. We have done what Parliament and the country expected us
to do, and to my poor judgement we have done it well.'
'I do not feel such self-satisfaction, Duke. Well;--we must see
it out, and if it is as you anticipate, I shall be ready. Of
course I have prepared myself for it. And if, of late, my mind
has been less turned to retirement than it used to be, it has
been because I have become wedded to this measure, and have
wished it that it should be carried under our auspices.' Then
the old Duke took his leave, and the Prime Minister was left
alone to consider the announcement that had been made to him.
He had said that he had prepared himself, but, in so saying, he
had hardly known himself. Hitherto, though he had been troubled
by many doubts, he had still hoped. The report made to him by Mr
Rattler, backed as it had been by Mr Roby's assurances, had
almost sufficed to give him confidence. But Mr Rattler and Mr
Roby combined were as nothing to the Duke of St Bungay. The
Prime Minister knew now,--that his days were numbered. The
resignation of that lingering old bishop was not completed, and
the person whom he believed would not have the see. He had
meditated the making of a peer or two, having hitherto been
cautious in that respect, but he would do nothing of the kind if
called upon by the House of Commons to resign with an uncompleted
measure. But his thoughts soon ran away from the present to the
future. What was now to become of himself? How should he live
his future life;--he who as yet had not passed his forty-seventh
year? He regretted much having made that apparently pretentious
speech about Caesar, though he knew his old friend well enough to
be sure that it would never be used against him. Who was he that
he should class himself among the big ones of the world? A man
may indeed measure small things by great, but the measurer should
be careful to declare his own littleness when he illustrates his
position by that of the topping ones of the earth. But the thing
said had been true. Let the Pompey be who he might, he, the
little Caesar of the day, could never now command another legion.
He had once told Phineas Finn that he regretted that he had
abstained from the ordinary amusements of English gentlemen. But
he had abstained from their ordinary occupations,--except so far
as politics is one of them. He cared nothing for oxen or for
furrows. In regard to his own land he hardly knew whether the
farms were large or small. He had been a scholar, and after a
certain fitful fashion he had maintained his scholarship, but the
literature to which he had been really attached had been that of
blue books and newspapers. What was he to do with himself when
called upon to resign? And he understood,--or thought that he
understood,--his position too well to expect that after a while,
with the usual interval, he might return to power. He had been
Prime Minister, not as the leading politician on either side, not
as the king of the party, but,--so he told himself,--as a stop-
gap. There could be nothing for him now till the insipidity of
life should gradually fade away into the grave.
After a while he got up and went off to his wife's apartment, the
room in which she used to prepare her triumphs and where now she
contemplated her disappointments. 'I have had the Duke with me,'
he said.
'What;--at last?'
'I do not know that he could have done any good by coming
sooner.'
'And what does his Grace say?'
'He thinks our days are numbered.'
'Psha!--is that all? I could have told him that ever so long
ago. It was hardly necessary that he should disturb himself at
last to come and tell us such well-ventilated news. There isn't
a porter at one of the clubs who doesn't know it.'
'Then there will be the less surprise,--and to those who are
concerned perhaps the less mortification.'
'Did he tell you who was to succeed you?' asked the Duchess.
'Not precisely.'
'He ought to have done that, as I am sure he knows. Everybody
knows except you, Plantagenet.'
'If you know, you can tell me.'
'Of course I can. It is Mr Monk.'
'With all my heart, Glencora. Mr Monk is a very good man.'
'I wonder whether he'll do anything for us. Think how destitute
we shall be! What if I were to ask him for a place! Would he
not give it us?'
'Will it make you unhappy, Cora?'
'What;--your going?'
'Yes;--the change altogether.'
She looked him in the face for a moment before she answered, with
a peculiar smile in her eyes to which he was well used,--a smile
half ludicrous, half pathetic,--having in it also a dash of
sarcasm. 'I can dare to tell the truth,' she said, 'which you
can't. I can be honest and straightforward. Yes, it will make
me unhappy. And you?'
'Do you think that I cannot be honest too,--at any rate to you?
It does fret me. I do not like to think that I shall be without
work.'
'Yes;--Othello's occupation will be gone,--for a while, for a
while.' Then she came up to him and put both her hands on his
breast. 'But yet, Othello, I shall not be unhappy.'
'Where will be your contentment?'
'In you. It was making you ill. Rough people whom the
tenderness of your nature could not well endure, trod upon you,
and worried you with their teeth and wounded you everywhere. I
could have turned at them again with my teeth, and given them
worry for worry;--but you could not. Now you will be saved from
them, and so I shall not be discontented.' All this she said
looking up into his face, still with that smile which was half
pathetic and half ludicrous.
'Then I shall be contented too,' he said as he kissed her.
CHAPTER 73
ONLY THE DUKE OF OMNIUM.
The night of the debate arrived, but before the debate was
commenced, Sir Timothy Beeswax got up to make a personal
explanation. He thought it right to state to the House how it
came to pass that he found himself bound to leave the Ministry at
so important a crisis in its existence. Then an observation was
made by an honourable member of the Government,--presumably in a
whisper, but still loud enough to catch the sharp ears of Sir
Timothy, who now sat just below the gangway. It was said
afterwards that the gentleman who made the observation,--an
Irish gentleman named Fitzgibbon, conspicuous rather for his
loyalty to his party than his steadiness,--had purposely taken
the place in which he then sat, that Sir Timothy might hear his
whisper. The whisper suggested that falling houses were often
left by certain animals. It was certainly a very loud whisper,--
but, if gentlemen are to be allowed to whisper at all, it is
almost impossible to restrain the volume of the voice. To
restrain Mr Fitzgibbon had always been found difficult. Sir
Timothy, who did not lack pluck, turned at once upon his
assailant, and declared that words had been used with reference
to himself which the honourable member did not dare to get upon
his legs and repeat. Larry Fitzgibbon, as the gentleman was
called, looked him full in the face, but did not move his hat
from his head or stir a limb. It was a pleasant little episode
in the evening's work, and afforded satisfaction to the House
generally. The details of the measure, as soon as they were made
known to him, appeared to him, he said, to be fraught with the
gravest and most pernicious consequences. He was sure that
members of her Majesty's Government, who were hurrying on this
measure with what he thought was an indecent haste,--ministers
are always either indecent in haste or treacherous in their
delay,--had not considered what they were doing, or, if they had
considered, were blind as to the results. He then attempted to
discuss the details of the measure, but was called to order. A
personal explanation could not be allowed to give an opportunity
of anticipating the debate. He contrived, however, before he sat
down, to say some very heavy things against his late chief, and
especially to congratulate the Duke on the services of the
honourable gentleman, the member for Mayo,--meaning thereby Mr
Laurence Fitzgibbon.
It would have perhaps been well for everybody if the measure
could have been withdrawn and the Ministry could have resigned
without the debate,--as everybody was convinced what would be
the end of it. Let the second reading go as it might, the bill
could not be carried. There are measures which require the
hopeful heartiness of a new Ministry, and the thoroughgoing
energy of a young Parliament,--and this was one of them. The
House was as fully agreed that this change was necessary, as it
ever agreed on any subject,--but still the thing could not be
done. Even Mr Monk, who was the most earnest of men, felt the
general slackness of all around him. The commotion and
excitement which would be caused by a change of Ministry might
restore its proper tone to the House, but at its present
condition it was unfit for its work. Nevertheless Mr Monk made
his speech, and put all his arguments into lucid order. He knew
it was for nothing, but nevertheless it must be done. For hour
after hour he went on,--for it was necessary to give every
detail of his contemplated proposition. He went through it as
sedulously as though he had expected to succeed, and sat down
about nine o'clock in the evening. Then Sir Orlando moved the
adjournment of the House till the morrow, giving as his reason
for doing so, the expedience of considering the details he had
heard. To this no opposition was made, and the House was
adjourned.
On the following day the clubs were all alive with rumours as to
the coming debate. It was known that a strong party had been
formed under the auspices of Sir Orlando, and that with him Sir
Timothy and other politicians were in close council. It was of
course necessary that they should impart to many the secrets of
their conclave, so that it was known early in the afternoon that
it was the intention of the Opposition not to discuss the bill,
but to move that it be read again that day six months. The
Ministry had hardly expected this, as the bill was undoubtedly
popular both in the House and the country; and if the Opposition
should be beaten in such a course, that defeat would tend greatly
to strengthen the hands of the Government. But if the foe should
succeed in carrying a positive veto on the second reading, it
would under all the circumstances be tantamount to a want of
confidence. 'I'm afraid they know almost more than we do as to
the feeling of members,' said Mr Roby to Mr Rattler.
'There isn't a man in the House whose feeling in the matter I
don't know,' said Rattler, 'but I'm not quite so sure of their
principles. On our own side, in our old party, there are a score
of men who detest the Duke, though they would fain be true to
the Government. They have voted with him through thick and thin,
and he has not spoken a word to them since he became Prime
Minister. What are you to do with such a man? How are you to
act with him?'
'Lupton wrote to him the other day about something,' answered the
other, 'I forget what, and he got a note back from Warburton as
cold as ice,--an absolute slap in the face. Fancy treating a
man like Lupton in that way,--one of the most popular men in the
House, related to half the peerage, and a man who thinks so much
of himself! I shouldn't wonder if he were to vote against us;--
I shouldn't indeed.'
'It has all been the old Duke's doing,' said Rattler, 'and no
doubt it was intended for the best; but the thing has been a
failure from the beginning to the end. I knew it would be so. I
don't think there has been a single man who has understood what a
Ministerial Coalition really means except you and I. From the
very beginning all your men were averse to it in spirit.'
'Look how they were treated!' said Mr Roby. 'Was it likely that
they should be very staunch when Mr Monk became Leader of the
House?'
There was a Cabinet Council that day which lasted but a few
minutes, and it may be easily presumed that the Ministers decided
that they would all resign at once if Sir Orlando should carry
his amendment. It is not unlikely that they were agreed to do the
same if he should carry it,--leaving probably the Prime Minister
to judge what narrow majority would constitute nearness. On this
occasion the gentlemen assembled were jocose in their manner, and
apparently well satisfied,--as though they saw before them an
end to all their troubles. The Spartan boy did not even make a
grimace when the wolf bit him beneath his frock, and these were
all Spartan boys. Even the Prime Minister, who had fortified
himself for the occasion, and who never wept in any company but
that of his wife and his old friend, was pleasant in his manner
and almost affable. 'We shan't make the step towards the
millennium just at present,' he said to Phineas Finn as they left
the room together,--referring to words which Phineas had spoken
on a former occasion, and which then had not been very well
taken.
'But we shall have made a step towards the step,' said Phineas,
'and getting to a millennium even that is something.'
'I suppose we are all too anxious,' said the Duke, 'to see some
green effects come from our own little doings. Good day. We
shall know all about it tolerably early. Monk seems to think
that it will be an attack on the Ministry and not on the bill,
and that it will be best to get a vote with as little delay as
possible.'
'I'll bet an even five-pound note,' said Mr Lupton at the
Carlton, 'that the present Ministry is out to-morrow, and another
that no one names five members of the next Cabinet.'
'You can help to win your first bet,' said Mr Beauchamp, a very
old member, who, like many other Conservatives, had supported the
Coalition.
'I shall not do that,' said Lupton, 'though I think I ought. I
won't vote against the man in his misfortunes, though, upon my
soul, I don't love him very dearly. I shall vote neither way,
but I hope that Sir Orlando may succeed.'
'If he do, who is to come in?' said the other. 'I suppose you
don't want to serve under Sir Orlando?'
'Nor certainly under the Duke of Omnium. We shall not want a
Prime Minister as long as there are as good fish in the sea as
have been caught out of it.'
There had lately been formed a new Liberal club, established on a
broader basis than the Progress, and perhaps with a greater
amount of aristocratic support. This had come up since the Duke
had been Prime Minister. Certain busy men had never been quite
contented with the existing state of things, and had thought that
the Liberal party, with such assistance as the club could give
it, would be strong enough to rule alone. That the great Liberal
party should be impeded in its work and its triumph by such men
as Sir Orlando Drought and Sir Timothy Beeswax was odious to the
club. All the Pallisers had, from time immemorial, run straight
as Liberals, and therefore the club had been unwilling to oppose
the Duke personally, though he was the head of the Coalition.
And certain members of the Government, Phineas Finn, for
instance, Barrington Erle, and Mr Rattler were on the committee
of the club. But the club, as a club, was not averse to a
discontinuance of the present state of things. Mr Gresham might
again become Prime Minister, if he would condescend so far, or
Mr Monk. It might be possible that the great Liberal triumph
contemplated by the club might not be achieved by the present
House;--but the present House must go shortly, and then, with
that assistance from a well-organized club, which had lately been
so terribly wanting,--the lack of which had made the Coalition
necessary,--no doubt the British constituencies would do their
duty, and a Liberal Prime Minister, pure and simple, might reign,
--almost for ever. With this great future before it, the club
was very lukewarm in its support of the present bill. 'I shall
go down and vote for them of course,' said Mr O'Mahony, 'just for
the look of the thing.' In saying this Mr O'Mahony expressed the
feeling of the club, and the feeling of the Liberal party
generally. There was something due to the Duke, but not enough
to make it incumbent on his friends to maintain his position as
Prime Minister.
It was a great day for Sir Orlando. At half-past four the House
was full,--not from any desire to hear Sir Orlando's arguments
against the bill, but because it was felt that a good deal of
personal interest would be attached to the debate. If one were
asked in these days what gift should a Prime Minister ask first
from the fairies, one would name the power of attracting personal
friends. Eloquence, if it be too easy, may become almost a
curse. Patriotism is suspected, and sometimes sinks to pedantry.
A Jove-born intellect is hardly wanted, and clashes with the
inferiorities. Industry is exacting. Honesty is unpractical.
Truth is easily offended. Dignity will not bend. But the man
who can be all things to all men, who has ever a kind word to
speak, a pleasant joke to crack, who can forgive all sins, who is
ever prepared for friend or foe, but never very bitter to the
latter, who forgets not man's names, and is always ready with
little words,--he is the man who will be supported at a crisis
such as this that was now in the course of passing. It is for
him that men will struggle, and talk, and, if needs be, fight, as
though the very existence of the country depended on his
political security. The present man would receive no such
defence, but still the violent deposition of a Prime Minister is
always a memorable occasion.
Sir Orlando made his speech, and, as had been anticipated, it had
very little to do with the bill, and was almost exclusively an
attack upon his late chief. He thought, he said, that this was
an occasion on which they had better come to a direct issue with
as little delay as possible. If he rightly read the feeling of
the House, no bill of this magnitude coming from the present
Ministry would be likely to be passed in an efficient condition.
The Duke had frittered away his support in that House, and as a
Minister had lost that confidence which a majority of the House
had once been willing to place in him. We need not follow Sir
Orlando through his speech. He alluded to his own services, and
declared that he was obliged to withdraw them because the Duke
would not trust him with the management of his own office. He
had reason to believe that other gentlemen who had attached
themselves to the Duke's Ministry had found themselves equally
crippled by this passion for autocratic rule. Hereupon a loud
chorus of disapprobation came from the Treasury bench, which was
fully answered by opposing noises from the other side of the
House. Sir Orlando declared that he need only point to the fact
that the Ministry had been already shivered by the secession of
various gentlemen. 'Only two,' said a voice. Sir Orlando was
turning round to contradict the voice when he was greeted by
another. 'And those the weakest,' said another voice, which was
indubitably that of Larry Fitzgibbon. 'I will not speak of
myself,' said Sir Orlando pompously, 'but I am authorized to tell
the House that the noble lord who is now the Secretary of State
for the Colonies only holds his office till this crisis is
passed.'
After that there was some sparring of a very bitter kind between
Sir Timothy and Phineas Finn, till at last it seemed that the
debate was to degenerate into a war of man against man. Phineas
and Erle, and Laurance Fitzgibbon allowed themselves to be lashed
into anger, and, as far as words went, had the best of it. But
of what use could it be? Every man there had come into the House
prepared to vote for or against the Duke of Omnium,--or
resolved, like Mr Lupton, not to vote at all, and it was hardly
on the cards that a single vote should be turned this way or that
by any violence of speaking. 'Let it pass,' said Mr Monk in a
whisper to Phineas. 'The fire is not worth the fuel.'
'I know the Duke's faults,' said Phineas, 'but these men know
nothing of his virtues, and when I hear them abuse him, I cannot
stand it.'
Early in the night,--before twelve o'clock,--the House divided,
and even at that moment of the division no one quite knew how it
would go. There would be many who would of course vote against
the amendment as being simply desirous of recording their opinion
in favour of the bill generally. And there were some who thought
that Sir Orlando and his followers had been too forward, and too
confident of their own standing in the House, in trying so
violent a mode of opposition. It would have been better, these
men thought, to have insured success by a gradual and persistent
opposition to the bill itself. But they hardly knew how
thoroughly men may be alienated by silence and a cold demeanour.
Sir Orlando on the division was beaten, but was beaten only by
nine. 'He can't go on with this bill,' said Rattler in one of
the lobbies of the House. 'I defy him. The House wouldn't stand
it, you know.' 'No minister,' said Roby, 'could carry a measure
like that with a majority of nine on a vote of confidence!' The
House was of course adjourned, and Mr Monk went at once to
Carlton Terrace.
'I wish it had only been three or four,' said the Duke, laughing.
'Why so?'
'Because there would have been less doubt.'
'Is there any at present?'
'Less possibility for doubt, I should say. You would not wish me
to make the attempt with such a majority?'
'I could not do it, Duke.'
'I quite agree with you. But there will be those who will say
that the attempt might be made,--who will accuse me of being
faint-hearted because we do not make it.'
'They will be men who understand nothing of the temper of the
House.'
'Very likely. But still, I wish the majority had only been two
or three. There is little more to be said, I suppose.'
'Very little, your Grace.'
'We had better meet to-morrow at two, and if possible, I will see
her Majesty in the afternoon. Good night, Mr Monk.'
'Good night, Duke.'
'My reign is ended. You are a good deal and older man than I, and
yet probably yours has yet to begin.' Mr Monk smiled and shook
his head as he left the room, not trusting himself to discuss so
large a subject at so late an hour of the night.
Without waiting a moment after his colleague's departure, the
Prime Minister,--for he was still Prime Minister,--went into
his wife's room, knowing that she was waiting up till she should
hear the result of the division, and there he found Mrs Finn with
her. 'Is it over?' asked the Duchess.
'Yes;--there has been a division. Mr Monk has just been with
me.'
'Well!'
'We have beaten them, of course, as we always do,' said the Duke,
attempting to be pleasant. 'You didn't suppose there was
anything to fear? Your husband has always bid you keep up your
courage;--has he not, Mrs Finn?'
'My husband has lost his senses, I think,' she said. 'He has
taken to such storming and raving about his political enemies
that I hardly dare to open my mouth.'
'Tell what has been done, Plantagenet,' ejaculated the Duchess.
'Don't you be so unreasonable as Mrs Finn, Cora. The House has
voted against Sir Orlando's amendment by a majority of nine.'
'Only nine!'
'And I shall cease to be Prime Minister to-morrow.'
'You don't mean to say that it's settled?'
'Quite settled. The play has been played, and the curtain has
fallen, and the lights are being put out, and the poor weary
actors may go home to bed.'
'But on such an amendment surely any majority would have done.'
'No, my dear. I will not name a number, but nine certainly would
not do.'
'And it is all over?'
'My Ministry is over, if you mean that.'
'Then everything is over for me. I shall settle down in the
country and build cottages, and mix draughts. You, Marie, will
still be going up the tree. If Mr Finn manages well he may come
to be Prime Minister some day.
'He has hardly such ambition, Lady Glen,'
'The ambition will come fast enough;--will it not, Plantagenet?
Let him once begin to dream of it as possible, and the desire
will soon be strong enough. How should you feel if it were so?'
'It is quite impossible,' said Mrs Finn, gravely.
'I don't see why anything is impossible. Sir Orlando will be
Prime Minister now, and Sir Timothy Beeswax Lord Chancellor.
After that anybody may hope to be anything. Well;--I suppose we
may go to bed. Is your carriage here, my dear?'
'I hope so.'
'Ring the bell, Plantagenet, for somebody to see her down. Come
to lunch to-morrow because I shall have so many groans to utter.
What beast, what brutes, what ungrateful wretches men are!--
worse than women when they get together in numbers enough to be
bold. Why have they deserted you? What have we not done for
them. Think of all the new bedroom furniture we sent to Gatherum
merely to keep the party together. There were thousands of yards
of linen, and it has all been of no use. Don't you feel like
Wolsey, Plantagenet?'
'Not in the least, my dear. No one will take anything away from
me that I own.'
'For me, I'm almost as much divorced as Catherine, and have had
my head cut off as completely as Anne Bullen and the rest of
them. Go away, Marie, because I am going to have a cry by
myself.'
The Duke himself on that night put Mrs Finn into her carriage;
and as he walked with her downstairs he asked her whether she
believed the Duchess was in earnest in her sorrow. 'She so mixes
up her mirth and woe together,' said the Duke, 'that I myself
sometimes can hardly understand her.'
'I think she does regret it, Duke.'
'She told me the other day that she would be contented.'
'A few weeks will make her so. As for your Grace, I hope I may
congratulate you.'
'Oh yes;--I think so. We none of us like to be beaten when we
have taken a thing in hand. There is always a little
disappointment at first. But, upon the whole, it is better as it
is. I hope it will not make your husband unhappy.'
'Not for his own sake. He will go again into the middle of the
scramble and fight on one side or the other. For my own part I
think opposition is the pleasantest. Good-night, Duke. I am so
sorry that I should have troubled you.'
Then he went alone to his own room, and sat there without moving
for a couple of hours. Surely it was a great thing to have been
Prime Minister of England for three years,--a prize of which
nothing could now rob him. He ought not to be unhappy; and yet
he knew himself to be wretched and disappointed. It had never
occurred to him to be proud of being a duke, or to think of his
wealth otherwise than a chance incident of his life, advantageous
indeed, but by no means a source of honour. And he had been
aware that he had owned his first seat in Parliament to his
birth, and probably also his first introduction to official life.
An heir to a dukedom, if he will only work, may almost with
certainty find himself received into one or other regiment in
Downing Street. It had not in his early days been with him as it
had with his friends Mr Monk and Phineas Finn, who had worked
their way from the very ranks. But even a duke cannot become
Prime Minister by favour. Surely he had done something of which
he might be proud. And so he tried to console himself.
But to have done something was nothing to him,--nothing to his
personal happiness,--unless there was also something left for
him to do. How should it be with him now,--now for the future?
Would men ever listen to him again, or allow him again to work in
their behoof, as he used to do in his happy days in the House of
Commons? He feared that it was all over for him, and that for
the rest of his days he must simply be the Duke of Omnium.
CHAPTER 74
'I AM DISGRACED AND SHAMED.'
Soon after the commencement of the Session Arthur Fletcher became
a constant visitor in Manchester Square, dining with the old
barrister almost constantly on Sundays, and not unfrequently on
other days when the House and his general engagements would
permit it. Between him and Emily's father there was no secret
and no misunderstanding. Mr Wharton quite understood that the
young member of Parliament was earnestly purposed to marry his
daughter, and Fletcher was sure of all the assistance and support
which Mr Wharton could give him. The name of Lopez was very
rarely used between them. It had been tacitly agreed that there
was no need that it should be mentioned. The man had come like a
destroying angel between them and their fondest hopes. Neither
could ever be what he would have been had the man never appeared
to destroy their happiness. But the man had gone away, not
without a tragedy that was appalling;--and each thought that, as
regarded him, he and the person in whom they were interested
could be taught to seem to forget him. 'It is not love,' said
the father, 'but a feeling of shame.' Arthur Fletcher shook his
head, not quite agreeing with this. It was not that he feared
that she loved the memory of her late husband. Such love was, he
thought, impossible. But there was, he believed, something more
than the feeling which her father described as shame. There was
pride also;--a determination in her own bosom not to confess the
fault she had made in giving herself to him whom she must now
think to have been so much the least worthy of her two suitors.
'Her fortune will not be what I once promised you,' said the old
man plaintively.
'I do not remember that I ever asked you as to her fortune,'
Arthur replied.
'Certainly not. If you had I would not have told you. But as I
named a sum, it is right that I should explain to you that that
man succeeded in lessening it by six or seven thousand pounds.'
'If that were all!'
'And I have promised Sir Alured that Everett, as his heir, should
have the use of a considerable portion of his share without
waiting for my death. It is odd that the one of my children from
whom I certainly expected the greater trouble should have fallen
so entirely on his feet; and that the other--; well, let us hope
for the best. Everett seems to have taken up with Wharton as
though it belonged to him already. And Emily--! Well, my dear
boy, let us hope that it may come right yet. You are not
drinking your wine. Yes,--pass the bottle. I'll have another
before I go upstairs.'
In this way the time went by till Emily returned to town. The
Ministry had just then resigned, but I think that 'this great
reactionary success,' as it was called by the writer in the
"People's Banner", affected one member of the Lower House much
less than the return to London of Mrs Lopez. Arthur Fletcher had
determined that he would renew his suit as soon as a year should
have expired since the tragedy which had made his love a widow;--
and that year had now passed away. He had known the day well,--
as had she, when she passed the morning weeping in her own room
at Wharton. Now he questioned himself whether a year would
suffice,--whether both in mercy to her and with a view of
realizing his own hopes he should give her some longer time for
recovery. But he had told himself that it should be done at the
end of a year, and as he had allowed no one to talk him out of
his word, so neither could he be untrue to it himself. But it
became to him a deep matter of business, a question of great
difficulty, how he should arrange the necessary interview,--
whether he should plead his case with her at their first meeting,
or whether he had better allow her to become accustomed to his
presence in the house. His mother had attempted to ridicule him,
because he was, as she said, afraid of a woman. He well
remembered that he had never been afraid of Emily Wharton when
they had been quite young,--little more than a boy and girl
together. Then he had told her of his love over and over again,
and had found almost a comfortable luxury in urging her to say a
word, which she had never indeed said, but which probably in
those days he still hoped she would say. And occasionally he had
feigned to be angry with her, and had tempted her on to little
quarrels with a boyish idea that a quick reconciliation would
perhaps throw her into his arms. But now it seemed to him that
an age had passed since those days. His love had certainly not
faded. There had never been a moment when that had been on the
wing. But now the azure plumage of his love had become grey as
the wings of a dove, and the gorgeousness of his dreams had
sobered into hopes and fears which were a constant burden to his
heart. There was time enough, still time enough for happiness if
she would yield;--and time enough for the dull pressure of
unsatisfied aspirations should she persist in her refusal.
At last he saw her, almost by accident, and that meeting
certainly was not fit for the purpose of his suit. He called at
Stone Buildings the day after her arrival, and found her at her
father's chambers. She had come there keeping some appointment
with him, and certainly had not expected to meet her lover. He
was confused and hardly able to say a word to account for his
presence, but she greeted him with almost sisterly affection,
saying some word of Longbarns and his family, telling him how
Everett, to Alured's great delight, had been sworn in as a
magistrate for the County, and how at the last hunt meeting John
Fletcher had been asked to take the County hounds because Lord
Weobly at seventy-five had declared himself to be unable any
longer to ride as a master of hounds ought to ride. All these
things Arthur had of course heard, such news being too important
to be kept long from him; but on none of these subjects had he
much to say. He stuttered and stammered, and quickly went away;
--not, however, before he had promised to come to dine as usual
on the next Sunday, and not without observing that the
anniversary of that fatal day of release had done something to
lighten the sombre load of mourning which the widow had hitherto
worn.
Yes;--he would dine there on the Sunday, but how would it be
with him then? Mr Wharton never went out of the house on a
Sunday evening, and could hardly be expected to leave his own
drawing-room for the sake of giving a lover an opportunity. No;
--he must wait till that evening should have passed, and then
make the occasion for himself as best he might. The Sunday came
and the dinner was eaten, and after dinner there was a single
bottle of port and the single bottle of claret. 'How do you
think she is looking?' asked the father. 'She was as pale as
death before we got her down into the country.'
'Upon my word, sir,' said he, 'I've hardly looked at her. It is
not a matter of looks now, as it used to be. It has got beyond
that. It is not that I am indifferent to seeing a pretty face,
or that I have no longer an opinion of my own about a woman's
figure. But there grows up, I think, a longing which almost
kills that consideration.'
'To me she is as beautiful as ever,' said the father proudly.
Fletcher did manage, when in the drawing-room to talk for a while
about John and the hounds, and then went away, having resolved
that he would come again on the very next day. Surely she would
not give an order that he should be denied admittance. She had
been too calm, too even, to confident of herself for that. Yes;
--he would come and tell her plainly what he had to say. He
would tell it with all the solemnity of which he was capable,
with a few words, and those the strongest of which he could use.
Should she refuse him;--as he almost knew that she would at
first,--then he would tell her of her father and of the wishes
of all their joint friends. 'Nothing,' he would say to her,
'nothing but personal dislike can justify you in refusing to heal
many wounds.' As he fixed on these words he failed to remember
how little probable it is that a lover should ever be able to use
the phrases which he arranges.
On the Monday he came, and asked for Mrs Lopez, slurring over the
word as best he could. The butler said his mistress was at home.
Since the death of the man he had so thoroughly despised, the old
servant had never called her Mrs Lopez. Arthur was shown
upstairs, and found the lady he sought,--but he found Mrs Roby
also. It may be remembered that Mrs Roby, after the tragedy, had
been refused admittance into Mr Wharton's house. Since that
there had been some correspondence, and a feeling had prevailed
that the woman was not to be quarrelled with forever. 'I did not
do it, papa, because of her,' Emily said with some scorn, and
that scorn had procured Mrs Roby's pardon. She was now making a
morning call, and suiting her conversation to the black dress of
her niece. Arthur was horrified at seeing her. Mrs Roby had
always been to him odious, not only as a personal enemy but as a
vulgar woman. He, at any rate, attributed on her a great part of
the evil that had been done, feeling sure that had there been no
house round the corner, Emily Wharton would never have become Mrs
Lopez. As it was he was forced to shake hands with her, and
forced to listen to the funereal tone in which Mrs Roby asked him
if he did not think that Mrs Lopez looked much improved since her
sojourn in Hertfordshire. He shrank at the sound, and then, in
order that it might not be repeated, took occasion to show that
he was allowed to call his early playmate by her Christian name.
Mrs Roby, thinking that she ought to check him, remarked that Mrs
Lopez's return was a great thing for Mr Wharton. Thereupon
Arthur Fletcher seized his hat off the ground, wished them both
good-bye, and hurried out of the room. 'What a very odd manner
he has taken up since he became a Member of Parliament,' said Mrs
Roby.
Emily was silent for a moment, and then with an effort,--with
intense pain,--she said a word or two which she thought had
better be at once spoken. 'He went because he does not like to
hear that name.'
'Good gracious!'
'And papa does not like it. Don't say a word about it, aunt;
pray don't,--but call me Emily.'
'Are you going to be ashamed of your name?'
'Never mind, aunt. If you think it wrong, you must stay away;--
but I will not have papa wounded.'
'Oh;--if Mr Wharton wishes it;--of course.' That evening Mrs
Roby told Dick Roby, her husband, what an old fool Mr Wharton
was.
The next day quite early, Fletcher was again at the house and was
again admitted upstairs. The butler, no doubt, knew well enough
why he came, and also knew that the purport of his coming had at
any rate the sanction of Mr Wharton. The room was empty when he
was shown into it, but she came to him very soon. 'I went away
yesterday rather abruptly,' he said. 'I hope you did not think
me rude.'
'Oh no.'
'Your aunt was here, and I had something I wished to say but
could not say it very well before her.'
'I knew that she had driven you away. You and Aunt Harriet were
never great friends.'
'Never;--but I will forgive her everything. I will forgive all
the injuries that have been done me if you will now do as I ask
you.'
Of course she knew what it was he was about to ask. When he had
left her at Longbarns without saying a word of his love, without
giving her a hint whereby she might allow herself to think that
he intended to renew his suit, then she had wept because it was
so. Though her resolution had been quite firm as to the duty
which was incumbent on her of remaining in her desolate condition
of almost nameless widowhood, yet she had been unable to refrain
from bitter tears because he also had seemed to see that such was
her duty. But now again, knowing that the request was coming,
feeling once more confident of the constancy of his love, she was
urgent with herself as to that heavy duty. She would be womanly,
dead to all shame, almost inhuman, were she to allow herself
again to indulge in love after all the havoc she had made. She
had been little more than a bride when that husband, for whom she
had often been forced to blush, had been driven by the weight of
his misfortunes and disgraces to destroy himself! By the
marriage she had made she had overwhelmed her whole family with
dishonour. She had done it with a persistency of perverse self-
will which she herself could not now look back on without wonder
and horror. She, too, should have died as well as he;--only
that death had not been within the compass of her powers as of
his. How the could she forget it all, and wipe it away from her
mind, as she would figures from a slate with a wet towel? How
could it be fit that she should again be a bride with such a
spectre of a husband haunting her memory? She had known that the
request was to be made when he took his sudden departure. She
had known it well, when just now the servant told her that Mr
Fletcher was in the drawing-room below. But she was quite
certain of the answer she must make. 'I should be sorry you
should ask me anything I cannot do,' she said in a very low
voice.
'I will ask you nothing for which I have not your father's
sanction.'
'The time has gone by, Arthur, in which I might well have been
guided by my father. There comes a time when personal feelings
must be stronger than a father's authority. Papa cannot see me
with my own eyes, he cannot understand what I feel. It is simply
this,--that he would have me to be other than I am. But I am
what I have made myself.'
'You have not heard me as yet. You will hear me?'
'Oh, yes.'
'I have loved you ever since I was a boy.' He paused as though
he expected that she would make some answer to this; but of
course there was nothing she could say. 'I have been true to you
since we were together almost as children.'
'It is your nature to be true.'
'In this matter, at any rate. I shall never change. I never for
a moment had a doubt about my love. There never has been anyone
else whom I have ventured to compare with you. Then came that
great trouble. Emily, you must let me speak freely this once, as
so much, to me at least, depends on it.'
'Say what you will, Arthur. Do not wound me more than you can
help.'
'God knows how willingly I would heal every wound without a word
if it could be done. I don't know whether you ever thought what
I suffered when he came among us and robbed me,--well, I will
not say robbed me of your love, because it was not mine--but
took away with him that which I had been trying to win.'
'I did not think a man would feel like that.'
'Why shouldn't a man feel as well as a woman? I had set my heart
on having you for my wife. Can any desire be nearer to a man
than that? Then he came. Well, dearest, surely I may say that
he was not worthy of you.'
'We were neither of us worthy,' she said.
'I need not tell you that we all grieved. It seemed to us down
in Hertfordshire as though a black cloud had come upon us. We
could not speak of you, nor yet could we be altogether silent.'
'Of course you condemned me,--as an outcast.'
'Did I write to you as though you were an outcast? Did I treat
you when I saw you as an outcast? When I come to you to-day, is
that proof that I think you to be an outcast? I have never
deceived you, Emily.'
'Never.'
'Then you will believe me when I say that through it all not one
word of reproach or contumely has ever passed my lips in regard
to you. That you should have given yourself to one whom I could
think worthy of you, was, of course, a great sorrow. Had he been
a prince of men it would have of course been a sorrow to me. How
it went with you during your married life I will not ask.'
'I was unhappy. I would tell you everything if I could. I was
very unhappy.'
'Then came--the end.' She was now weeping with her face buried
in her handkerchief. 'I would spare you if I knew how, but there
are some things which must be said.'
'No;--no. I will bear it all--from you.'
'Well! His success had not lessened my love. Though then I
could have no hope,--though you were utterly removed from me,--
all that could not change me. There it was,--as though my arm
or my leg had been taken from me. It was bad to live without an
arm or a leg, but there was no help. I went on with my life and
tried not to look like a whipped cur;--though John from time to
time would tell me that I failed. But now;--now that is again
all changed,--what would you have me do now? It may be that
after all my limb may be restored to me, that I may be again as
other men are, whole, and sound, and happy;--so happy! When it
may possibly be within my reach am I not to look for my
happiness?' He paused, but she wept on without speaking a word.
'There are those who will say that I should wait till all these
signs of woe have been laid aside. But why should I wait? There
has come a great blot on your life, and is it not well that it
should be covered as quickly as possible?'
'It can never be covered.'
'You mean that it can never be forgotten. No doubt there are
passages in our life which we cannot forget, though we bury them
in the deepest silence. All this can never be driven out of your
memory,--nor from mine. But it need not therefore blacken our
lives. In such a condition we should not be ruled by what the
world thinks.'
'Not at all. I care nothing for what the world thinks. I am
below all that. It is what I think of myself,--of myself.'
'Will you think of no one else? Are any of your thoughts for me,
--or for your father?'
'Oh yes;--for my father.'
'I need hardly tell you what he wishes. You must know how you
can best give him back the comfort he has lost.'
'But, Arthur, even for him I cannot do everything.'
'There is one question to be asked,' he said, rising from her
feet and standing before her;--'but one; and what you do should
depend entirely on the answer which you may be able truly make to
that.'
This he said so solemnly that he startled her.
'What question, Arthur?'
'Do you love me?' To this question at the moment she could make
no reply. 'Of course I know that you did not love me when you
married him.'
'Love is not all of one kind.'
'You know what love I mean. You did not love me then. You could not
have loved me,--though, perhaps, I thought I had deserved your
love. But love will change and memory will some times bring back
old fancies when the world has been stern and hard. When we were
very young I think you loved me. Do you remember seven years ago
at Longbarns, when they parted us and sent me away, because,--
because we were so young? They did not tell us then, but I think
you knew. I know that I knew, and went nigh to swear that I
would drown myself. You loved me then, Emily.'
'I was a child then.'
'Now you are not a child. Do you love me now,--to-day? If so,
give me your hand, and the past be buried in silence. All this
has come and gone, and has nearly made us old. But there is life
before us yet, and if you are to me as I am to you it is better
that our lives should be lived together.' Then he stood before
her with his hand stretched out.
'I cannot do it,' she said.
'And why?'
'I cannot be other than the wretched thing I have made myself.'
'But do you love me?'
'I cannot analyse my heart. Love you;--yes! I have always
loved you. Everything about you is dear to me. I can triumph in
your triumphs, rejoice at your joy, weep at your sorrows, be ever
anxious that all good things may come to you;--but, Arthur, I
cannot be your wife.'
'Not though it would make us all happy,--Fletchers and Whartons
all alike?'
'Do you think I have not thought it over? Do you think that I
have forgotten your first letter? Knowing your heart, as I do
know it, do you imagine that I have spent a day, an hour, for
months past, without asking myself what answer I should make to
you if the sweet constancy of your nature should bring you again
to me? I have trembled when I have heard your voice. My heart
has beat at the sound of your footsteps as though it would burst!
Do you think I have never told myself what I had thrown away.
But it is gone, and it is not now within my reach.'
'It is, it is,' he said, throwing himself on his knees, and
twining his arms around her.
'No;--no;--no;--never. I am disgraced and shamed. I have
lain among the pots till I am foul and blackened. Take your arms
away. They shall not be defiled,' she said as she sprang to her
feet. 'You shall not have the thing that he has left.'
'Emily;--it is the only thing in all the world that I crave.'
'Be a man and conquer your love,--as I will. Get it under your
feet and press it to death. Tell yourself that it is shameful
and must be abandoned. That you, Arthur Fletcher, should marry
the widow of that man,--the woman that he had thrust so far into
the mire that she can never again be clean;--you, the chosen
one, the bright star among us all;--you, whose wife should be
the fairest, the purest, the tenderest of us all, a flower that
has yet been hardly breathed on. While I--Arthur,' she said, 'I
know my duty better than that. I will not seek an escape from my
punishment in that way,--nor will I allow you to destroy
yourself. You have my word as a woman that it shall not be so.
Now I do not mind your knowing whether I love you or no.' He
stood silent before her, not able for the moment to go on with
his prayer. 'And now,' she said, 'God bless you, and give you
some fair and happy wife. And, Arthur, do not come again to me.
If you will let it be so, I shall have delight in seeing you;--
but not if you come as you have come now. And, Arthur, spare me
with papa. Do not let him think that it is all my fault that I
cannot do the thing that he wishes.' Then she left the room
before he could say another word to her.
But it was all her fault. No;--in that direction he could not
spare her. It must be told to her father, though he doubted his
own power of describing all that had been said. 'Do not come
again to me,' she had said. At the moment he had been left
speechless; but if there was one thing fixed in his mind, it was
the determination to come again. He was sure now, not only of
love that might have sufficed,--but of hot, passionate love.
She had told him that her heart had beat at his footsteps, and
that she had trembled as she listened to his voice,--and yet she
had expected that he would not come again! But there was a
violence of decision about the woman which made him dread that he
might still come in vain. She was so warped from herself by the
conviction of her great mistake, so prone to take shame to
herself for her own error, so keenly alive to the degradation to
which she had been submitted, that it might yet be impossible to
teach her that, though her husband had been vile and she
mistaken, yet she had not been soiled by his baseness.
He went at once to the old barrister's chambers and told him the
result of the meeting. 'She is still a fool,' said the father,
not understanding at second-hand the depths of his daughter's
feeling.
'No, sir,--not that. She felt herself degraded by his
degradation. If it be possible we must save her from that.'
'She did degrade herself.'
'Not as she means it. She is not degraded in my eyes.'
'Why should she not take the only means in her power of rescuing
herself and rescuing us all from the evil that she did? She owes
it you, me, and to her brother.'
'I would hardly wish her to come to me in payment of such a
debt.'
'There is no room left,' said Mr Wharton angrily, 'for soft
sentimentality. Well;--she must take her bed as she makes it.
It is very hard on me, I know. Considering what she used to be,
it is marvellous to me that she should have so little idea left
of doing her duty to others.'
Arthur Fletcher found that the barrister was at the moment too
angry to hear reason, or to be made to understand anything of the
feelings of mixed love and admiration with which he was animated
at the moment. He was obliged therefore to content himself with
assuring the father that he did not intend to give up the pursuit
of his daughter.
CHAPTER 75
THE GREAT WHARTON ALLIANCE.
When Mr Wharton got home on that day he said not a word to Emily
as to Arthur Fletcher. He had resolved to take various courses;
--first to tell her roundly that she was neglecting her duty to
herself and to her family, and that he would no longer take her
part and be her good friend unless she would consent to marry the
man whom she had confessed that she loved. But as he thought of
this he became aware,--first that he could not carry out such a
threat, and then that he would lack even the firmness to make it.
There was something in her face, something even in her dress,
something in her whole manner to himself, which softened him and
reduced him to vassalage directly he saw her. Then he determined
to throw himself on her compassion and to implore her to put an
end to all this misery by making herself happy. But as he drew
near home he found himself unable to do even this. How is a
father to beseech his widowed daughter to give herself away in
a second marriage? And therefore when he entered the house and
found her waiting for him he said nothing. At first she looked
at him wistfully,--anxious to learn by his face whether her
lover had been with him. But when he spoke not a word, simply
kissing her in his usual quiet way, she became cheerful in a
manner and communicative. 'Papa,' she said, 'I have had a letter
from Mary.'
'Well, my dear.'
'Just a nice chatty letter,--full of Everett, of course.'
'Everett is a great man now.'
'I am sure that you are very glad that he is what he is. Will
you see Mary's letter?' Mr Wharton was not specially given to
reading young ladies' correspondence, and did not know why this
particular letter should be offered to him. 'You don't suspect
anything at Wharton, do you?' she asked.
'Suspect anything! No; I don't suspect anything.' But now,
having had his curiosity aroused, he took the letter which was
offered to him and read it. The letter was as follows:
Wharton, Thursday.
DEAREST EMILY,
We all hope that you had a pleasant journey up to London,
and that Mr Wharton is quite well. Your brother Everett
came over to Longbarns the day after you started and
drove me back to Wharton in the dog-cart. It was such a
pleasant journey, though, now I remember, it rained all
the way. But Everett has always so much to say that I
didn't mind the rain. I think it will end in John taking
the hounds. He says he won't because he does not wish to
be the slave of the whole county;--but he says it in
that sort of way that we all think he means to do it.
Everett tells him that he ought, because he is the only
hunting man on this side of the county who can afford to
do without feeling it much; and of course what Everett
says will go a long way with him. Sarah,--(Sarah was
John Fletcher's wife),--is rather against it. But if he
makes up his mind she'll be sure to turn round. Of
course it makes us all very anxious at present to know
how it is to end, for the Master of the Hounds always is
the leading man in our part of the world. Papa went to
the bench at Ross yesterday and took Everett with him.
It was the first time that Everett had sat there. He
says I am to tell his father he has not hung anybody as
yet.
They have already begun to cut down, or what they call
stubb up, Barnton Spinnies. Everett said that it is no
good keeping it as a wood, and papa agreed. So it is to
go into the home farm, and Griffiths is to pay rent for
it. I don't like having it cut down, as the boys always
used to get nuts there, but Everett says it won't do to
keep woods for little boys to get nuts.
Mary Stocking has been very ill since you went, and I'm
afraid she won't last long. When they get to be so very
bad with rheumatism I almost think it's wrong to pray for
them, because they are in so much pain. We thought at
one time that mamma's ointment had done her good, but when
we came to inquire we found that she had swallowed it.
Wasn't it dreadful? But it didn't seem to do her any
harm. Everett says that it wouldn't make any difference
which she did.
Papa is beginning to be afraid that Everett is a Radical.
But I'm sure he's not. He says he is as good a
Conservative as there is in all Hertfordshire, only that
he likes to know what is to be conserved. Papa said
after dinner yesterday that everything English should be
maintained. Everett said that according to that we
should have kept the Star Chamber. 'Of course I would,'
said papa. Then they went at it hammer and tongs.
Everett had the best of it. At any rate he talked the
longest. But I do hope he is not a Radical. No country
gentleman ought to be a Radical. Ought he, dear?
Mrs Fletcher says you are to get the lozenges at Squire's
in Oxford Street, and be sure to ask for the Vade mecum
lozenges. She is all in a flutter about those hounds.
She says she hopes John will do nothing of the kind
because of the expense; but we all know that she would
like him to have them. The subscription is not very
good, only 1,500 pounds, and it would cost him ever so
much a year. But everybody says he is very rich and that
he ought to do it. If you see Arthur give him our love.
Of course a member of Parliament is too busy to write
letters. But I don't think Arthur was ever good at
writing. Everett says that men never ought to write
letters. Give my love to Mr Wharton.
I am, dearest Emily,
Your most affectionate Cousin,
MARY WHARTON
'Everett is a fool,' said Mr Wharton as soon as he had read the
letter.
'Why is he a fool, papa?'
'Because he will quarrel with Sir Alured about politics before he
knows where he is. What business has a young fellow like that to
have an opinion either one side or the other, before his
betters?'
'But Everett always has strong opinions.'
'It didn't matter as long as he only talked nonsense at a club in
London, but how he'll break that old man's heart.'
'But, papa, don't you see anything else?'
'I see that John Fletcher is going to make an ass of himself and
spend a thousand a year in keeping a pack of hounds for other
people to ride after.'
'I think I see something else besides that.'
'What do you see?'
'Would it annoy you if Everett was to become engaged to Mary?'
Then Mr Wharton whistled. 'To be sure she does put his name into
every line of the letter. No; it wouldn't annoy me. I don't see
why he shouldn't marry his second cousin if he likes. Only if he
is engaged to her, I think it odd that he shouldn't write and
tell us.'
'I'm sure she is not engaged to him as yet. She wouldn't write
all in that way if she were engaged. Everybody would be told at
once, and Sir Alured would never be able to keep it a secret.
Why should there be a secret? But I'm sure that she is very fond
of him. Mary would never write about any man in that way unless
she were beginning to be attached to him.'
About ten days after this there came two letters from Wharton
Hall to Manchester Square, the shortest of which shall be given
first. It ran as follows:
MY DEAR FATHER,
I have proposed to my cousin Mary, and she has accepted
me. Everybody here seems to like the idea. I hope it
will not displease you. Of course you and Emily will
come down. I will tell you when the day is fixed.
Your affectionate Son,
EVERETT WHARTON
This the old man read as he sat at breakfast with his daughter
opposite to him, while Emily was reading a very much longer
letter from the same house. 'So it's going to be just as you
guessed,' he said.
'I was quite sure of it, papa. Is that from Everett? Is he very
happy?'
'Upon my word, I can't say whether he's happy or not. If he had
got a new horse he would have written at much greater length
about it. It seems, however, to be quite fixed.'
'Oh yes. This is from Mary. She is happy at any rate. I
suppose men never say so much about these things as women.'
'May I see Mary's letter?'
'I don't think it would be quite fair, papa. It's only a girl's
rhapsody about the man she loves,--very nice and womanly, but
not intended for anyone but me. It does not seem that they mean
to wait very long.'
'Why should they wait? Is any day fixed?'
'Mary says that Everett talks about the middle of May. Of course
you will go down.'
'We must both go.'
'You will at any rate. Don't promise for me just at present. It
must make Sir Alured very happy. It is almost the same as
finding himself at last with a son of his own. I suppose they
will live at Wharton altogether now,--unless Everett gets into
Parliament.'
But the reader may see the young lady's letter, though her future
father-in-law was not permitted to do so, and will perceive that
there was a paragraph at the close of it which perhaps was more
conducive to Emily's secrecy than her feelings as to the sacred
obligations of female correspondence.
Monday, Wharton.
DEAREST EMILY,
I wonder whether you will be much surprised at the news I
have to tell you. You cannot be more so that I am at
having to write it. It has all been so very sudden that
I almost feel ashamed of myself. Everett has proposed to
me, and I have accepted him. There;--now you know it
all. Though you never can know how very dearly I love
him and how thoroughly I admire him, I do think that he
is everything that a man ought to be, and that I am the
most fortunate young woman in the world. Only isn't it
odd that I should always have to live my life in the same
house, and never change my name,--just like a man, or an
old maid? But I don't mind that because I do love him so
dearly and because he is so good. He has written to Mr
Wharton. I know. I was sitting by him and his letter
didn't take him a minute. But he says that long letters
about such things only give trouble. I hope you won't
think my letter troublesome. He is not sitting by me
now, but has gone over to Longbarns to help settle about
the hounds. John is going to have them after all. I
wish it hadn't happened just at this time because all the
gentlemen do think so much about it. Of course Everett
is one of the committee.
Papa and mamma are both very, very glad of it. Of course
it is nice for them, as it will keep Everett and me here.
If I had married anybody else,--though I am sure I never
should,--she would have been very lonely. And of course
papa likes to think that Everett is already one of us. I
hope they will never quarrel about politics, but as
Everett says, the world does change as it goes on, and
young men and old men never will think quite the same
about things. Everett told papa the other day that if he
could be put back a century he would be a Radical. Then
there were ever so many words. But Everett always
laughs, and at last papa comes round.
I can't tell you, my dear, what a fuss we are in already
about it all. Everett wants our marriage early in May,
so that we may have two months in Switzerland before
London is what he calls turned loose. And papa says that
there is no use in delaying, because he gets older every
day. Of course that is true of everybody. So that we
are all in flutter about getting things. Mamma did talk
of going up to town, but I believe they have things quite
as good at Hereford. Sarah, when she was married, had
all her things from London, but they say that there has
been a great change since that. I am sure I think that
you may get anything you want at Muddocks and Cramble's.
But mamma says I am to have my veil from Howell and
James's.
Of course you and Mr Wharton will come. I shan't think
it any marriage without. Papa and mama talk of it as
quite of course. You know how fond papa is of the
bishop. I think he will marry us. I own I should like
to be married by a bishop. It would make it so sweet and
so solemn. Mr Higgenbottom could of course assist;--but
he is such an odd old man, with his snuff and his
spectacles always tumbling off, that I shouldn't like to
have no one else. I have often thought that if it were
only for marrying people we ought to have a nicer rector at
Wharton.
Almost all the tenants have been to wish me joy. They
are very fond of Everett already, and now they feel that
there will never be any very great change. I do think it
is the very best thing that could be done, even if it
were not that I am so thoroughly in love with him. I
didn't think I should ever be able to own that I was in
love with a man; but now I feel quite proud of it. I
don't mind telling you because he is your brother, and I
think that you will be glad of it.
He talks very often about you. Of course you know what
it is that we all wish. I love Arthur Fletcher almost as
much as if he were my brother. He is my sister's
brother-in-law, and if he could become my husband's
brother-in-law too, I should be so happy. Of course we
all know that he wishes it. Write immediately to wish me
joy. Perhaps you could go to Howell and James's about
the veil. And promise to come to us in May. Sarah says
the veil should cost about thirty pounds.
Dearest, dearest Emily,
I shall soon be your most affectionate sister,
MARY WHARTON
Emily's answer was full of warm, affectionate congratulations.
She had much to say in favour of Everett. She promised to use
all her little skill at Howell and James's. She expressed a hope
that the overtures to be made in regard to the bishop might be
successful. And she made kind remarks even as to Muddocks and
Crumble. But she would not promise that she herself would be at
Wharton on the happy day. 'Dear Mary,' she said, 'remember what
I have suffered, and that I cannot be quite as other people are.
I could not stand at your marriage in black clothes,--nor should
I have the courage even if I had the will to dress myself in
others.' None of the Whartons had come to her wedding. There
was no feeling of anger now left as to that. She was quite aware
that they had done right to stay away. But the very fact that it
had been right that they should stay away would make it wrong
that the widow of Ferdinand Lopez should now assist at the
marriage of one Wharton to another. This was all that a marriage
ought to be, whereas that had been--all that a marriage ought
not to be. In answer to the paragraph about Arthur Fletcher
Emily Lopez had not a word to say.
Soon after this, early in April, Everett came up to town. Though
his bride might be content to get her bridal clothes in Hereford,
none but a London tailor could decorate him properly for such an
occasion. During these last weeks Arthur Fletcher had not been
seen at Manchester Square; nor had his name been mentioned there
by Mr Wharton. Of anything that may have passed between them
Emily was altogether ignorant. She observed, or thought that she
observed, that her father was more silent with her,--perhaps
less tender than he had been since the day on which her husband
had perished. His manner of life was the same. He almost always
dined at home in order that she might not be alone, and made no
complaint as to her conduct. But she could see that he was
unhappy, and she knew the cause of his grief. 'I think, papa,'
she said one day, 'that it would be better that I should go
away.' This was on the day before Everett's arrival,--of which,
however, he had given no notice.
'Go away! Where would you go to?'
'It does not matter. I do not make you happy.'
'What do you mean? Who says that I am not happy? Why do you
talk like that?'
'Do not be angry with me. Nobody says so. I can see it well
enough. I know how good you are to me, but I am making your life
wretched. I am a wet blanket to you, and yet I cannot help
myself. If I could go somewhere, where I could be of use.'
'I don't know what you mean. This is your proper home.'
'No;--it is not my home. I ought to have forfeited it. I ought
to go where I could work and be of some use in the world.'
'You might use it if you chose, my dear. Your proper career is
before you if you would condescend to accept it. It is not for
me to persuade you, but I can see and feel the truth. Till you
can bring yourself to do that, your days will be blighted,--and
so will mine. You have made one great mistake in life. Stop a
moment. I do not speak often, but I wish you to listen to me now.
Such mistakes do generally produce misery and ruin in all who are
concerned. With you it chances that it may be otherwise. You
can put your foot again upon the firm ground and recover
everything. Of course there must be a struggle. One person has
to struggle with circumstances, another with his foes, and a
third with his own feelings. I can understand that there should
be a struggle with you; but it ought to be made. You ought to be
brave enough and strong enough to conquer your regrets, and to
begin again. In no other way can you do anything for me or for
yourself. To talk of going away is childish nonsense. Whither
would you go? I shall not urge you any more, but I would not
have you talk to me in that way.' Then he got up and left the
room and the house and went down to his club,--in order that she
might think of what he had said in solitude.
And she did think of it;--but still continually with an
assurance to herself that her father did not understand her
feelings. The career of which he spoke was no doubt open to her,
but she could not regard it as that which it was proper that she
should fulfil, as he did. When she told her lover that she had
lain among the pots till she was black and defiled, she expressed
in the strongest language that which was her real conviction. He
did not think her to have been defiled,--or at any rate thought
that she might again bear the wings of a dove; but she felt it,
and therefore knew herself to be unfit. The next morning, when
he came into the parlour where she was already sitting, she
looked up at him almost reproachfully. Did he think that a woman
was a piece of furniture which you could mend, and re-varnish,
and fit out with new ornaments, and then send out for use,
second-hand indeed, but for all purposes good as new?
Then, while she was in this frame of mind, Everett came in upon
her unawares, and with his almost boisterous happiness succeeded
for a while in changing the current of her thoughts. He was of
course now uppermost in his own thoughts. The last few months
had made so much of him that he might be excused for being unable
to sink himself in the presence of others. He was the heir to
the baronetcy,--and to the double fortunes of the two old men.
And he was going to be married in a manner as everyone told him
to increase the glory and stability of the family. 'It's all
nonsense about your not coming down,' he said. She smiled and
shook her head. 'I can only tell you that it will give the
greatest offence to everyone. If you knew how much they talk
about you down there I don't think you would like to hurt them.'
'Of course I would not like to hurt them.'
'And considering that you have no other brother--'
'Oh, Everett!'
'I think more about it, perhaps, than you do. I think you owe it
me to come down. You will never probably have another chance of
being present at your brother's marriage.' This he said in a
tone that was almost lachrymose.
'A wedding, Everett, should be merry.'
'I don't know about that. It is a very serious sort of thing, to
my way of thinking. When Mary got your letter it nearly broke
her heart. I think I have a right to expect it, and if you don't
come I shall feel myself injured. I don't see what is the use of
having a family if the members of it do not stick together. What
would you think if I were to desert you?'
'Desert you, Everett!'
Well, yes;--it is something of the kind. I have made my
request, and you can comply with it or not as you please.'
'I will go,' she said very slowly. Then she left him and went to
her own room to think in what description of garments she could
appear at a wedding with the least violence to the condition of
her life.
'I have got her to say she'll come,' he said to his father that
evening. 'If you leave her to me, I'll bring her round.'
Soon after that,--within a day or two,--there came out a
paragraph in one of the fashionable newspapers of the day, saying
that an alliance had been arranged between the heir to the
Wharton title and property and the daughter of the present
baronet. I think that this had probably originated in the club
gossip. I trust it did not spring directly from the activity or
ambition of Everett himself.
CHAPTER 76
WHO WILL IT BE?
For the first day or two after the resignation of the Ministry
the Duchess appeared to take no further notice of the matter. An
ungrateful world had repudiated her husband, and he had foolishly
assisted and given way to the repudiation. All her grand
aspirations were at an end. All her triumphs were over. And
worse than that, there was present to her a conviction that she
had never really triumphed. There never had come the happy
moment in which she had felt herself to be dominant over other
women. She had toiled, struggled, she had battled and
occasionally submitted; and yet there was present to her a
feeling that she had stood higher in public estimation as Lady
Glencora Palliser,--whose position had been all her own and had
not depended on her husband,--than now she had done as the
Duchess of Omnium, and wife of the Prime Minister of England.
She had meant to be something, she knew not what, greater than
had been the wives of other Prime Ministers and other Dukes, and
now she felt that in her failure she had been almost ridiculous.
And the failure, she thought, had been his,--or hers,--rather
than that of circumstances. If he had been less scrupulous and
more persistent it might have been different,--of if she had
been more discreet. Sometimes she felt hew own failing so
violently as to acquit him almost entirely. At other times she
was almost beside herself with anger because all her losses
seemed to have arisen from want of stubbornness on his part.
When he had told her that he and his followers had determined to
resign because they had beaten their foes by only a majority of
nine, she took it into her head that he was in fault. Why should
he go while his supporters were more numerous than his opponents?
It was useless to bid him think it over again. Though she was
far from understanding all the circumstances of the game, she did
know that he could not remain after having arranged with his
colleagues that he would go. So she became cross and sullen, and
while he was going to Windsor and back and setting his house in
order, and preparing the way for his successor,--whoever that
successor might be,--she was moody and silent, dreaming over
some impossible condition of things in accordance with which he
might have remained Prime Minister--almost for ever.
On the Sunday after the fatal division,--the division which the
Duchess would not allow to have been fatal,--she came across him
somewhere in the house. She had hardly spoken to him since he
had come into her room that night and told her that all was over.
She had said that she was unwell and had kept out of sight, and
he had been here and there, between Windsor and the Treasury
Chambers, and had been glad to escape from her ill-humour. But
she could not endure any longer the annoyance of having to get
all her news from Mrs Finn,--second hand, or third hand, and now
found herself driven to capitulate. 'Well,' she said, 'how is it
all going to be? I suppose you do not know or you would have
told me?'
'There is very little to tell.'
'Mr Monk is to be Prime Minister?' she asked.
'I did not say so. But it is not impossible.'
'Has the Queen sent for him?'
'Not as yet. Her Majesty has seen both Mr Gresham and Mr Daubney
as well as myself. It does not seem a very easy thing to make a
Ministry at present.'
'Why should not you go back?'
'I do not think that is on the cards.'
'Why not? Ever so many men have done it, after going out,--and
why not you? I remember Mr Mildmay doing it twice. It is always
the thing, when the man who has been sent for makes a mess of it,
for the old minister to have another chance.'
'But what if the old minister will not take the chance?'
'Then it is the old minister's fault. Why shouldn't you take the
chance as well as another? It isn't many days ago since you were
quite anxious to remain in. I thought you were going to break
your heart because people even talked of your going.'
'I was going to break my heart, as you call it,' he said,
smiling, 'not because people talked of my ceasing to be minister,
but because the feeling of the House of Commons justified people
in so saying. I hope you see the difference.'
'No, I don't. And there is no difference. The people we are
talking about are the members,--and they have supported you.
You could go on if you chose. I'm sure Mr Monk wouldn't leave
you.'
'It is just what Mr Monk would do, and ought to do. No one is
less likely than Mr Monk to behave badly in such an emergency.
The more I see of Mr Monk, the higher I think of him.'
'He has his own game to play as well as others.'
'I think he has no game to play but that of his country. It is
no use our discussing it, Cora.'
'Of course I understand nothing, because I'm a woman.'
'You understand a great deal,--but not quite all. You may at
any rate understand this,--that our troubles are at an end. You
were saying the other day that the labours of being a Prime
Minister's wife had been almost too many for you.'
'I never said so. As long as you didn't give way no labour was
too much for me. I would have done anything,--slaved morning
and night,--so that we might have succeeded. I hate being beat.
I'd sooner be cut to pieces.'
'There's no help for it now, Cora. The Lord Mayor, you know, is
only Lord Mayor for one year, and must then go back to private
life.'
'But men have been Prime Ministers for ten years at a time. If
you have made up your mind, I suppose we may as well give up. I
shall think it your own fault.' He still smiled. 'I shall,' she
said.
'Oh, Cora!'
'I can only speak as I feel.'
'I don't think you would speak as you do if you knew how much
your words hurt me. In such a matter as this I should not be
justified in allowing your opinions to have weight with me. But
your sympathy would be so much to me!'
'When I thought I was making you ill, I wished you might be
spared.'
'My illness would be nothing, but my honour is everything. I,
too, have something to bear as well as you, and if you cannot
approve of what I do, at any rate be silent.'
'Yes;--I can be silent.' Then he slowly left her. As he went
she was almost tempted to yield, and to throw herself into his
arms, and to promise that she would be soft to him, and to say
that she was sure that all that he did was for the best. But she
could not bring herself as yet to be good-humoured. If he had
only been a little stronger, a little thicker-skinned, made of
clay a little coarser, a little other than he was, it might have
been so different!
Early on that Sunday afternoon she had herself driven to Mrs
Finn's house in Park Lane, instead of waiting for her friend.
Latterly she had but seldom done this, finding that her presence
at home was much wanted. She had been filled with, perhaps,
foolish ideas of the necessity of doing something,--of adding
something to the strength of her husband's position,--and had
certainly been diligent in her work. But now she might run about
like any other woman. 'This is an honour, Duchess,' said Mrs
Finn.
'Don't be sarcastic, Marie. We have nothing further to do with
the bestowal of honours. Why didn't he make everybody a peer or
a baronet while he was about it? Lord Finn! I don't see why he
shouldn't have been Lord Finn. I'm sure he deserved it for the
way in which he attacked Sir Timothy Beeswax.'
'I don't think he'd like it.'
'They all say so, but I suppose they do like it, or they wouldn't
make it. And I'd have made Locock a knight;--Sir James Locock.
He's have made a more knightly knight that Sir Timothy. When a
man has power he ought to use it. It makes people respect him.
Mr Daubney made a duke, and people think more of that than
anything he did. Is Mr Finn going to join the new Ministry?'
'If you can tell me, Duchess, who is to be the next minister, I
can give a guess.'
'Mr Monk.'
'Then he certainly will.'
'Or Mr Daubney.'
'Then he certainly won't.'
'Or Mr Gresham.'
'That I could not answer.'
'Or the Duke of Omnium.'
'That would depend on his Grace. If the Duke came back, Mr
Finn's services would be at his disposal, whether in or out of
office.'
'Very prettily said, my dear. I never look round this room
without thinking of the first time I came here. Do you remember,
when I found the old man sitting there?' The old man alluded to
was the late Duke.
'I am not likely to forget it, Duchess.'
'How I hated you when I saw you! What a fright I thought you
were! I pictured you to myself as a sort of ogre, willing to eat
up everybody for the gratification of your own vanity.'
'I was very vain, but there was a little pride with it.'
'And now it has come to pass that I can't very well live without
you. How he did love you!'
'His Grace was very good to me.'
'It would have done no great harm, after all, if he had made you
Duchess of Omnium.'
'Very great harm to me, Lady Glen. As it is I got a friend that
I love dearly, and a husband that I love dearly too. In the
other case I should have made neither. Perhaps I may say that,
in that other case my life would not have been brightened by the
affection of the present Duchess.'
'One can't tell how it would have gone, but I well remember the
state I was in then.' The door opened and Phineas Finn entered
the room. 'What, Mr Finn, are you at home? I thought everybody
was crowding down at the clubs, to know who is to be what. We
are settled. We are quiet. We have nothing to do to disturb
ourselves. But you ought to be in all the flutter of renewed
expectation.'
'I am waiting my destiny in calm seclusion. I hope the Duke is
well?'
'As well as can be expected. He doesn't walk about his room with
a poniard in his hand,--ready for himself or Sir Orlando; nor is
he sitting crowned like Bacchus, drinking the health of the new
Ministry with Lord Drummond and Sir Timothy. He is probably
sipping a cup of coffee over a blue-book in dignified retirement.
You should go and see him.'
'I should be unwilling to trouble him when he is so much
occupied.'
'That is just what has done him all the harm in the world.
Everybody presumes that he has so much to think of that nobody
goes near him. Then he is left to boody over everything by
himself till he becomes a sort of political hermit, or
ministerial Lama, whom human eyes are not to look upon. It
doesn't matter now; does it?' Visitor after visitor came in, and
the Duchess chatted to them all, leaving the impression on
everybody that heard her that she at least was not sorry to be
relieved from the troubles attending her husband's late position.
She sat there over an hour, and as she was taking her leave, she
had a few words to whisper to Mrs Finn. 'When this is all over,'
she said. 'I mean to call on that Mrs Lopez.'
'I thought you did go there.'
'That was soon after the poor man had killed himself,--when she
was going away. Of course I only left a card. But I shall see
her now if I can. We want to get her out of her melancholy if
possible. I have a sort of feeling, you know, that among us we
made the train run over him.'
'I don't think that.'
'He got so horribly abused for what he did at Silverbridge; and I
really don't see why he wasn't to have his money. It was I that
made him spend it.'
'He was, I fancy, a thoroughly bad man.'
'But a wife doesn't always want to be made a widow even if her
husband be bad. I think I owe her something, and I would pay my
debt if I knew how. I shall go and see her, and if she will
marry this other man we'll take her by the hand. Good-bye, dear.
You'd better come to me early to-morrow, as I suppose we shall
know something by eleven o'clock.'
In the course of that evening the Duke of St Bungay came to
Carlton Terrace, and was closeted for some time with the late
Prime Minister. He had been engaged during that and the last two
previous days in lending his aid to various political manoeuvres
and ministerial attempts, from which our Duke had kept himself
altogether aloof. He did not go to Windsor, but as each
successive competitor journeyed thither and returned, someone
sent for the old Duke or went to seek his council. He was the
Nestor of the occasion, and strove heartily to compose all
quarrels, and so to arrange matters that a wholesome, moderately
Liberal Ministry might be again installed for the good of the
country and the comfort of all true Whigs. In such moments he
almost ascended to the grand heights of patriotism, being always
indifferent as to himself. Now he came to his late chief with a
new project. Mr Gresham would attempt to form a Ministry if the
Duke of Omnium would join him.
'It is impossible!' said the younger politician, folding his
hands together and throwing himself back in the chair.
'Listen to me before you answer me with such certainty. There
are three or four gentlemen who, after the work of the last three
years, bearing in mind the manner in which our defeat has just
been accomplished, feel themselves disinclined to join Mr Gresham
unless you will do so also. I may specially name Mr Monk and Mr
Finn. I might perhaps add myself, were it not that I had hoped
that in any event I might at length regard myself as exempt from
further service. The old horse should be left to graze out his
last days, ne peccet ad extremum ridendus. But you can't
consider yourself absolved on that score.'
'There are other reasons.'
'But the Queen's service should count before everything. Gresham
and Cantrip with their own friends can hardly make a Ministry as
things are now unless Mr Monk will join them. I do not think
that any other Chancellor of the Exchequer is at present
possible.'
'I will beseech Mr Monk not to let any feeling as to me stand in
his way. Why should it?'
'It is not only what you may think and he may think,--but what
others will think and say. The Coalition will have done all that
ought to have been expected from it if our party in it can now
join Mr Gresham.'
'By all means. But I could give them no strength. They may be
sure at any rate of what little I can do for them out of office.'
'Mr Gresham made his acceptance of office,--well, I will not say
strictly conditional on your joining him. That would hardly be
correct. But he has expressed himself quite willing to make the
attempt with your aid, and doubtful whether he can succeed
without it. He suggests that you should join him as President of
the Council.'
'And you?'
'If I were wanted at all I should take Privy Seal.'
'Certainly not, my friend. If there were any question of my
return we could reverse the offices. But I think I may say that
my mind is fixed. If you wish it I will see Mr Monk and do all
that I can to get him to go with you. But, for myself,--I feel
that it would be useless.'
At last, at the Duke's pressing request, he agreed to take
twenty-four hours before he gave his final answer to the
proposition.
CHAPTER 77
THE DUCHESS IN MANCHESTER SQUARE.
The Duke said not a word to his wife as to this new proposition,
and when she asked him what tidings their old friend had brought
as to the state of affairs, he almost told a fib in his anxiety
to escape from her persecution. 'He is in some doubt what he
means to do himself,' said the Duke. The Duchess asked many
questions, but got no satisfactory reply to any of them. Nor did
Mrs Finn learn anything from her husband, whom, however, she did
not interrogate very closely. She would be contented to know
when the proper time might come for ladies to be informed. The
Duke, however, was determined to take his twenty-four hours all
alone,--or at any rate not to be driven to his decision by
feminine interference.
In the meantime the Duchess went to Manchester Square intent on
performing certain good offices on behalf of the poor widow. It
may be doubted whether she had clearly made up her mind what it
was that she could do, though she was clear that some debt was
due by her to Mrs Lopez. And she knew too in what direction
assistance might be serviceable, if only in this case it could be
given. She had heard that the present member for Silverbridge
had been the lady's lover before Mr Lopez had come upon the
scene, and with those feminine wiles of which she was a perfect
mistress she had extracted from him a confession that his mind
was unaltered. She liked Arthur Fletcher,--as indeed she had
for a time liked Ferdinand Lopez,--and felt that her conscience
would be easier if she could assist in this good work. She built
castles in the air as to the presence of the bride and bridegroom at
Matching, thinking how she might thus repair the evil she had
done. But her heart misgave her a little as she drew near to the
house, and remembered how very slight was her acquaintance and
how extremely delicate the mission on which she had come. But
she was not the woman to turn back when she had once put her foot
to any work; and she was driven up to the door in Manchester
Square without any expressed hesitation on her own part. 'Yes;--
his mistress was at home,' said the butler, still shrinking at
the sound of the name which he heard. The Duchess was then shown
upstairs, and was left alone for some minutes in the drawing-
room. It was a large handsome apartment hung round with valuable
pictures, and having signs of considerable wealth. Since she had
first invited Lopez to stand for Silverbridge she had heard much
about him, and had wondered how he had gained possession of such
a girl as Emily Wharton. And now, as she looked about her, her
wonder was increased. She knew enough of such people as the
Whartons and the Fletchers to be aware that as a class they are
more impregnable, more closely guarded by their feelings and
prejudices against strangers than any other. None keep their
daughters to themselves with greater care, or are less willing to
see their rules of life changed or abolished. And yet this man,
half foreigner, half Jew,--and as it now appeared, whole pauper,
had stepped in and carried off a prize of which such a one as
Arthur Fletcher was contending! The Duchess had never seen Emily
but once,--so as to observe her well,--and had then thought her
to be a very handsome woman. It had been at the garden party at
Richmond, and Lopez had then insisted that his wife should be
well dressed. It would perhaps have been impossible in the whole
of that assembly to find a more beautiful woman than Mrs Lopez
then was,--or one who carried herself with a finer air. Now
when she entered the room in her deep mourning it would have been
difficult to recognize her. Her face was much thinner, her eyes
apparently larger, and her colour faded. And there had come a
settled seriousness on her face which seemed to rob her of her
youth. Arthur Fletcher had declared that as he saw her now she
was more beautiful than ever. But Arthur Fletcher, in looking at
her, saw more then her mere features. To his eyes there was a
tenderness added by her sorrow which had its own attraction for
him. And he was so well versed in every line of her countenance,
that he could see there the old loveliness behind the sorrow; the
loveliness which would come forth again, as bright as ever, if
the sorrow could be removed. But the Duchess, though she
remembered the woman's beauty as she might that of any other
lady, now saw nothing but a thing of woe wrapped in customary
widow's weeds. 'I hope,' she said, 'I am not intruding in coming
to you; but I have been anxious to renew our acquaintance for
reasons which I am sure you will understand.'
Emily at the moment hardly knew how to address her august
visitor. Though her father had lived all his life in what is
called good society, he had not consorted much with dukes and
duchesses. She herself had indeed on one occasion been for an
hour or two the guest of this grand lady, but on that occasion
she had hardly been called upon to talk to her. Now she doubted
how to name the Duchess, and with some show of hesitation decided
at last upon not naming her at all. 'It is very good of you to
come,' she said in a faltering voice.
'I told you that I would when I wrote, you know. That is many
months ago, but I have not forgotten it. You have been in the
country since that, I think?'
'Yes. In Hertfordshire. Hertfordshire is our county.'
'I know all about it,' said the Duchess, smiling. She generally
did contrive to learn 'all about' people whom she chose to take
by the hand. 'We have a Hertfordshire gentleman sitting for,--I
must not say our borough of Silverbridge.' She was anxious to
make some allusion to Arthur Fletcher, but it was difficult to
travel on that Silverbridge ground, as Lopez had been her chosen
candidate when she still wished to claim the borough as an
appanage of the Palliser family. Emily, however, kept her
countenance and did not show by any sign that her thoughts were
running in that direction. 'And though we don't presume to
regard Mr Fletcher,' continued the Duchess, 'as in any way
connected with our local interests, he has always supported the
Duke, and I hope has become a friend of ours. I think he is a
neighbour of yours in that county.'
'Oh yes. My cousin is married to his brother.'
'I knew there was something of that kind. He told me that there
was some close alliance.' The Duchess as she looked at the woman
to whom she wanted to be kind did not as yet dare to express a
wish that there might be at some no very distant time a closer
alliance. She had come there intending to do so; and had still
some hope that she might do it before the interview was over.
But at any rate she would not do it yet. 'Have I not heard,' she
said, 'something of another marriage?'
'My brother is going to marry his cousin, Sir Alured Wharton's
daughter.'
'Ah;--I though it had been one of the Fletchers. It was our
member who told me, and spoke as if they were all his very dear
friends.'
'They are our very dear friends,--very.' Poor Emily still
didn't know whether to call her Duchess, my Lady, or Grace,--and
yet she felt the need of calling her by some special name.
'Exactly. I supposed it was so. They tell me Mr Fletcher will
become quite a favourite of the House. At this present moment
nobody knows on which side anybody is going to sit to-morrow. It
may be that Mr Fletcher will become the dire enemy of all the
Duke's friends.'
'I hope not.'
'Of course I'm speaking of political enemies. Political enemies
are often the best friends in the world; and I can assure you
from my own experience that political friends are often the
bitterest enemies. I never hated any people so much as some of
our supporters.' The Duchess made a grimace, and Emily could not
refrain from smiling. 'Yes, indeed. There's an old saying that
misfortune makes strange bedfellows, but political friendship
makes stranger alliances than misfortune. Perhaps you have never
heard of Sir Timothy Beeswax.'
'Never.'
'Well;--don't. But, as I was saying, there is no knowing who
may support whom now. If I were asked who would be Prime
Minister to-morrow, I should take half-dozen names and shake them
in a bag.'
'Is it not settled then?'
'Settled! No, indeed. Nothing is settled.' At that moment
indeed everything was settled, though the Duchess did not know
it. 'And so we none of us can tell how Mr Fletcher may stand
with us when things are arranged. I suppose he calls himself a
Conservative?'
'Oh, yes!'
'All the Whartons are, I suppose, Conservatives,--and all the
Fletchers.'
'Very nearly. Papa calls himself a Tory.'
'A very much better name to my thinking. We are all Whigs, of
course. A Palliser who is not a Whig would be held to have
disgraced himself for ever. Are not politics odd? A few years
ago I only barely knew what the word meant, and that not
correctly. I have been so eager about it, that there hardly
seems to be anything else worth living for. I suppose it's
wrong, but a state of pugnacity seems to me the greatest bliss
which we can reach here on earth.'
'I shouldn't like to be always fighting.'
'That's because you haven't known Sir Timothy Beeswax and two or
three other gentlemen whom I could name. The day will come, I
dare say, when you will care for politics.'
Emily was about to answer, hardly knowing what to say, when the
door was opened and Mrs Roby came into the room. The lady was
not announced and Emily had heard no knock at the door. She was
forced to go through some ceremony of introduction. 'This is my
aunt, Mrs Roby,' she said, 'Aunt Harriet, the Duchess of Omnium.'
Mrs Roby was beside herself,--not all with joy. That feeling
would come afterwards when she would boast to her friends of her
new acquaintance. At present there was the embarrassment of not
quite knowing how to behave herself. The Duchess bowed from her
seat, and smiled sweetly,--as she had learned to smile since her
husband had become Prime Minister. Mrs Roby curtsied, and then
remembered that in these days only housemaids ought to curtsey.
'Anything to our Mr Roby?' said the Duchess, continuing her
smile,--'ours as was till yesterday at least.' This she said in
an absurd wail of mock sorrow.
'My brother-in-law, your Grace,' said Mrs Roby delighted.
'Oh indeed. And what does Mr Roby think about it, I wonder? But
I dare say you have found, Mrs Roby, that when a crisis comes,--
a real crisis,--the ladies are told nothing. I have.'
'I don't think, your Grace, that Mr Roby ever divulges political
secrets.'
'Doesn't he indeed! What a dull man your brother-in-law must be
to live with,--that is as politician! Good-bye, Mrs Lopez. You
must come and see me and let me come to you again. I hope, you
know,--I hope the time may come when things may once more be
bright with you.' These last words she murmured almost in a
whisper, as she held the hand of the woman she wished to
befriend. Then she bowed to Mrs Roby, and left the room.
'What was it she said to you?' asked Mrs Roby.
'Nothing in particular, Aunt Harriet.'
'She seems to be very friendly. What made her come?'
'She wrote to me some time ago to say she would call.'
'But why?'
'I cannot tell you. I don't know. Don't ask me aunt, about
things that are passed. You cannot do it without wounding me.'
'I don't want to wound you, Emily, but I really think it is
nonsense. She is a very nice woman;--though I don't think she
ought to have said that Mr Roby is dull. Did Mr Wharton know
that she was coming?'
'He knew that she said she would come,' replied Emily very
sternly, so that Mrs Roby found herself compelled to pass on to
some other subject. Mrs Roby had heard the wish expressed that
something 'once more might be bright', and when she got home told
her husband that she was sure that Emily Lopez was going to marry
Arthur Fletcher. 'And why the d--shouldn't she?' said Dick. 'And
that poor man destroying himself not more than twelve months ago!
I couldn't do it,' said Mrs Roby. 'I don't mean to give you the
chance,' said Dick.
The Duchess when she went away suffered under a sense of failure.
She had intended to bring about some sort of crisis of female
tenderness in which she might have rushed into future hopes and
joyous anticipations, and with the freedom which will come from
ebullitions of feeling, have told the widow that the peculiar
circumstances of her position would not only justify her in
marrying this other man but absolutely called upon her to do it.
Unfortunately she had failed in her attempt to bring the
interview to a condition in which this would have been possible,
and while she was still making the attempt that odious aunt had
come in. 'I have been on my mission,' she said to Mrs Finn
afterwards.
'Have you done any good?'
'I don't think I've done any harm. Women, you know, are so very
different. There are some who would delight to have an
opportunity of opening their hearts to a Duchess, and who might
almost be talked into anything in an ecstasy.'
'Hardly women of the best sort, Lady Glen.'
'Not of the best sort. But then one doesn't come across the very
best, very often. But that kind of thing does have an effect,
and as I only wanted to do good, I wish she had been one of the
sort for the occasion.'
'Was she--offended?'
'Oh dear, no. You don't suppose I attacked her with a husband at
the first. Indeed, I didn't attack her at all. She didn't give
me an opportunity. Such a Niobe you never saw.'
'Was she weeping?'
'Not actual tears, but her gown, and her cap, and her strings
were weeping. Her voice wept, and her hair, and her nose, and
her mouth. Don't you know that look of subdued mourning? And yet
they say that that man is dying for love. How beautiful it is to
see that there is such a thing as constancy left in the world.'
When she got home she found that her husband had just returned
from the old Duke's house, where he had met Mr Monk, Mr Gresham,
and Lord Cantrip. 'It's all settled at last,' he said
cheerfully.
CHAPTER 78
THE NEW MINISTRY.
When the ex-Prime Minister was left by himself after the departure
of his old friend his first feeling had been one of regret that he
had been weak enough to doubt at all. He had long since made up
his mind that after all that had passed he could not return to
office as a subordinate. That feeling as to the impropriety of
Caesar descending to serve under others which he had been foolish
enough to express, had been strong with him from the very
commencement of his Ministry. When first asked to take the place
which he had filled the reason strong against it had been the
conviction that it would probably exclude him from political work
during the latter half of his life. The man who has written Q.C.
after his name, must abandon his practice behind the bar. As he
then was, although he had already driven by the unhappy
circumstance of his peerage from the House of Commons which he
loved so well, there was still open to him many fields of
political work. But if he should once consent to stand on the
top rung of the ladder, he could not, he thought, take a lower
place without degradation. Till he should have been placed quite
at the top no shifting his place from this higher to that lower
office would injure him in his own estimation. The exigencies of
the service and not defeat would produce such changes as that.
But he could not go down from being Prime Minister and serve
under some other chief without acknowledging himself to have been
unfit for the place he had filled. Of all that he had quite
assured himself. And yet he allowed the old Duke to talk him
into a doubt!
As he sat considering the question he acknowledged that there
might have been room for doubt, though in the present emergency
there certainly was none. He could imagine circumstances in
which the experience of an individual in some special branch of
his country's service might be of paramount importance to the
country as to make it incumbent on a man to sacrifice all
personal feeling. But it was not so with him. There was nothing
now which he could do, which another might not do as well. That
blessed task of introducing decimals into all commercial
relations of British life, which had once kept him aloft in the
air, floating as upon eagle's wings, had been denied him. If
ever done it must be done from the House of Commons, and the
people of the country had become deaf to the charms of the great
reform. Othello's occupation was, in truth, altogether gone, and
there was no reason by which he could justify to himself the step
down in the world which the old Duke had proposed to him.
Early on the following morning he left Carlton Terrace on foot
and walked to Mr Monk's house, which was close to St James's
Street. Here at eleven o'clock he found his late Chancellor of
the Exchequer in that state of tedious agitation in which a man
is kept who does not yet know whether he is or is not to be one
of the actors in the play just about to be performed. The Duke
had never before been in Mr Monk's very humble abode, and now
caused some surprise. Mr Monk knew that he might probably be
sent for, but had not expected any of the ex-Prime Ministers of
the day would come to him. People had said that not improbably
he himself might be the man,--but he himself had indulged in no
such dream. Office had had no great charms for him;--and if
there was one man of the late Government who could lay it down
without personal regret, it was Mr Monk. 'I wish you to come
with me to the Duke's house in St James's Square,' said the late
Prime Minister. 'I think we shall find him at home.'
'Certainly I will come at this moment.' There was not a word
spoken till the two men were in the street together. 'Of course
I am a little anxious,' said Mr Monk. 'Have you anything to tell
me before we get there?'
'You of course must return to office, Mr Monk.'
'With your Grace--I certainly will do so.'
'And without, if there be the need. They who are wanted should
be forthcoming. But perhaps you will let me postpone what I have
to say till we see the Duke. What a charming morning;--is it
not? How sweet it would be down in the country.' March had gone
out like a lamb, and even in London in the early April days were
sweet--to be followed, no doubt, by the usual nipping inclemency
of May. 'I never can get over the feeling,' said the Duke, 'that
Parliament should sit for the winter months, instead of in
summer. If we met on the first of October, how glorious it would
be to get away for the early spring!'
'Nothing less strong than grouse could break up Parliament,' said
Mr Monk; 'and then what would the pheasants and foxes say?'
'It is giving almost too much for our amusements. I used to
think that I should like to move for a return to the number of
hunting and shooting gentlemen in both Houses. I believe it
would be a small minority.'
'But their sons shoot, and their daughters hunt, and all their
hangers-on would be against it.'
'Custom is against us, Mr Monk; that is it. Here we are. I hope
my friend will not be out, looking up young Lords of the
Treasury.' The Duke of St Bungay was not in search of cadets for
the Government, but he was at this very moment closeted with Mr
Gresham, and Mr Gresham's especial friend Lord Cantrip. He had
been at this work so long and so constantly that his very
servants had their ministerial-crisis manners and felt and
enjoyed the importance of the occasion. The two newcomers were
soon allowed to enter the august conclave, and the five great
senators greeted each other cordially. 'I hope we have not come
inopportunely,' said the Duke of Omnium. Mr Gresham assured him
almost with hilarity that nothing could be less inopportune;--
and then the Duke was sure that Mr Gresham was to be the new
Prime Minister, whoever might join him or whoever might refuse to
do so. 'I told my friend here,' continued our Duke, laying his
hand upon the old man's arm, 'that I would give him his answer to
a proposition he made with me within twenty-four hours. But I
find that I can do so without that delay.'
'I trust your Grace's answer may be favourable to us,' said Mr
Gresham,--who indeed did not doubt much that it would be so,
seeing that Mr Monk had accompanied him.
'I do not think it would be unfavourable, though I cannot do as
my friend has proposed.'
'Any practicable arrangement--' began Mr Gresham, with a frown,
however, on his brow.
'The most practicable arrangement, I am sure, will be for you to
form your Government, without hampering yourself with a beaten
predecessor.'
'Not beaten,' said Lord Cantrip.
'Certainly not,' said the other Duke.
'It is because of your success that I ask your services,' said Mr
Gresham.
'I have none to give,--none that I cannot better bestow out of
office than in. I must ask you, gentlemen, to believe that I am
quite fixed. Coming here with my friend Mr Monk, I did not state
my purpose to him; but I begged him to accompany me, fearing lest
in my absence he should feel it incumbent on himself to sail in
the same boat as his late colleague.'
'I should prefer to do so,' said Mr Monk.
'Of course it is not for me to say what may be Mr Gresham's
ideas, but as my friend here suggested to me that, were I to
return to office, Mr Monk would do so also, I cannot be wrong in
surmising that his services are desired.' Mr Gresham bowed
assent. 'I shall therefore take the liberty of telling Mr Monk
that I think he is bound to give his aid in the present
emergency. Were I as happily placed as he is in being the
possessor of a seat in the House of Commons, I too should hope
that I might do something.'
The four gentlemen, with eager pressure, begged the Duke to
reconsider his decision. He could take this office and do
nothing in it,--there being, as we know, offices the holders are
not called upon for work,--or he could take that place which
required him to labour like a galley slave. Would he be Privy
Seal? Would he undertake the India Board? But the Duke of
Omnium was at last resolute. Of this administration he would not
at any rate be a member. Whether Caesar might or might not at
some future time condescend to command a legion he could not do
so when the purple had been but that moment stripped from his
shoulders. He soon afterwards left the house with a repeated
request to Mr Monk that he should not follow his late chief's
example.
'I regret it greatly,' said Mr Gresham when he was gone.
'There is no man,' said Lord Cantrip, 'whom all who know him more
thoroughly respect.'
'He has been worried,' said the old Duke, 'and must take time to
recover himself. He has but one fault,--he is a little too
conscientious, a little too scrupulous.' Mr Monk, of course, did
join them, making one or two stipulations as he did so. He
required that his friend Phineas Finn should be included in the
Government. Mr Gresham yielded, though poor Phineas was not
among the most favoured friends of that statesman. And so the
Government was formed, and the crisis was again over, and the
lists which the newspapers had been publishing for the last three
days were republished in an amended and nearly correct condition.
The triumph of the "People's Banner", as to the omission of the
Duke, was of course complete. The editor had no hesitation in
declaring that he, by his own sagacity and persistency, had made
certain the exclusion of that very unfit and very pressing
candidate for office.
The list was filled up after the usual fashion. For a while the
dilettanti politicians of the clubs, and the strong-minded women
who take an interest in such things, and the writers in
newspapers, had almost doubted whether in the emergency which had
been supposed to be so peculiar, any Government could be formed.
There had been,--so they had said,--peculiarities so peculiar
that it might be that the much-dreaded deadlock had come at last.
A Coalition had been possible, and, though antagonistic to
British feelings generally, had carried on the Government. But
what might succeed the Coalition, nobody had known. The Radicals
and Liberals together would be too strong for Mr Daubney and Sir
Orlando. Mr Gresham had no longer a party of his own at his
back, and a second Coalition would be generally spurned. In this
way there had been much political excitement, and a fair amount
of consequent enjoyment. But after a few days the old men had
rattled into their old places,--or, generally, old men into new
places. And it was understood that Mr Gresham would again be
supported by a majority.
As we grow old it is a matter of interest to watch how the
natural gaps are filled in the two ranks of parliamentary workmen
by whom the Government is carried on, either in the one interest
or the other. Of course there must be gaps. Some men become too
old,--though that is rarely the case. A Peel may perish, or
even a Palmerston must die. Some men, though, long supported by
interest, family connection, or the loyalty of colleagues, are
weighed down at last by their own incapacity and sink into
peerages. Now and again a man cannot bear the bondage of office,
and flies into rebellion and independence which would have been
more respectable had it not been the result of discontent. Then
the gaps must be filled. Whether on this side or on that, the
candidates are first looked for among the sons of Earls and
Dukes,--and not unnaturally, as the sons of Earls and Dukes may
be educated for such work almost from their infancy. A few rise
by the slow process of acknowledged fitness,--men who probably
at first have not thought of offices, but are chosen because they
are wanted, and those whose careers are grudged them, not by
their opponents or rivals, but by the Browns and Joneses of the
world who cannot bear to see a Smith or a Walker become something
so different to themselves. These men have a great weight to
carry, and cannot always shake off the burden of their origin and
live among begotten statesman as though they too had been born to
the manner. But perhaps the most wonderful ministerial
phenomenon,--though now almost too common to be called a
phenomenon,--is he who rises high in power and place by having
made himself thoroughly detested and also--alas for
parliamentary cowardice!--thoroughly feared. Given sufficient
audacity, a thick skin, and power to bear for a few years the
evil looks and cold shoulders of his comrades, and that is the
man most sure to make his way to some high seat. But the skin
must be thicker than that of any animal known, and the audacity
must be complete. To the man who will once shrink at the idea of
being looked at askance for treachery, or hated for his ill
condition, the career is impossible. But let him be obdurate,
and the bid will come. 'Not because I want him, do I ask for
him,' says some groaning chief of party,--to himself, and also
sufficiently aloud for others' ears,--'but because he stings me
and goads me, and will drive me to madness as a foe.' Then the
pachydermous one enters into the other's heaven, probably with
the resolution already formed of ousting that unhappy angel. And
so it was in the present instance. When Mr Gresham's completed
list was published to the world, the world was astonished to find
that Sir Timothy Beeswax was to be Mr Gresham's Attorney-General.
Sir Gregory Grogram became Lord Chancellor, and the Liberal chief
was content to borrow his senior law adviser from the
Conservative side of the late Coalition. It could not be that Mr
Gresham was very fond of Sir Timothy;--but Sir Timothy in the
late debates had shown himself to be a man of whom a minister
might well be afraid.
Immediately on leaving the old Duke's house, the late Premier
went home to his wife, and finding that she was out, waited for
her return. Now that he had put his own decision beyond his
power he was anxious to let her know how it was to be with them.
'I think it is settled at last,' he said.
'Are you coming back?'
'Certainly not that. I believe I may say that Mr Gresham is
Prime Minister.'
'Then he oughtn't to be,' said the Duchess crossly.
'I am sorry that I must differ from you, my dear, because I think
he is the fittest man in England for the place.'
'And you?'
'I am a private gentleman who will now be able to devote more of
his time to his wife and children than has hitherto been possible
with him.'
'How very nice! Do you mean to say that you like it?'
'I am sure that I ought to like it. At the present moment I am
thinking more of what you would like.'
'If you ask me, Plantagenet, you know I shall tell the truth.'
'Then tell the truth.'
'After drinking brandy so long I hardly think that 12s claret
will agree with my stomach. You ask for the truth, and there it
is,--very plainly.'
'Plain enough!'
'You asked, you know.'
'And I am glad to have been told, even though that which you tell
me is not pleasant hearing. When a man has been drinking too
much brandy, it may be well that he should be put on a course of
12s claret.'
'He won't like it; and then,--it's kill or cure.'
'I don't think you've gone so far, Cora, that we need fear that
the remedy will be fatal.'
'I am thinking of you rather than myself. I can make myself
generally disagreeable, and get excitement in that way. But what
will you do? It's all very well to talk of me and the children,
but you can't bring in a bill for reforming us. You can't make
us go by decimals. You can't increase our consumption by
lowering our taxation. I wish you had gone back to some Board.'
This she said looking up into his face with an anxiety which was
half real and half burlesque.
'I had made up my mind to go back on to no Board,--for the
present. I was thinking that we could spend some months in Italy,
Cora.'
'What; for the summer,--so as to be in Rome in July! After that
we could utilize winter by visiting Norway.'
'We might take Norway first.'
'And be eaten up by mosquitoes! I've got to be too old to like
travelling.'
'What do you like, dear?'
'Nothing;--except being the Prime Minister's wife; and upon my
word there were times when I didn't like that very much. I don't
know anything that I am fit for. I wonder whether Mr Gresham
would have me as a housekeeper? Only we should have to lend him
Gatherum, or there would be no room for the display of my
abilities. Is Mr Monk in?'
'He keeps his office.'
'And Mr Finn?'
'I believe so; but in what place I don't know.'
'And who else?'
'Our old friend the Duke and Lord Cantrip, and Mr Wilson,--and
Sir Gregory will be Lord Chancellor.'
'Just the old stupid Liberal team. Put their names in a bag and
shake them, and you can always get a ministry. Well, Plantagenet;--
I'll go anywhere you like to take me. I'll have something for
the malaria at Rome, and something for the mosquitoes in Norway,
and will make the best of it. But I don't see why you should run
away in the middle of the Session. I would stay and pitch into
them, all round, like a true ex-minister and independent member
of Parliament.' Then as he was leaving her she fired a last
shot. 'I hope you made Sir Orlando and Sir Timothy peers before
you gave up.'
It was not until two days after this that she read in one of the
daily papers that Sir Timothy Beeswax was to be Attorney-General,
and then her patience almost deserted her. To tell the truth,
her husband had not dared to mention the appointment when he
first saw her after hearing it. Her explosion fell on the head
of Phineas Finn, whom she found at home with his wife, deploring
the necessity which had fallen upon him of filling the faineant
office of Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster. 'Mr Finn,' she
said, 'I congratulate you on your colleagues.'
'Your Grace is very good. I was at any rate introduced to many
of them under the Duke's auspices.'
'And ought, I think, to have seen enough of them to be ashamed of
them. Such a regiment to march through Coventry with!'
'I do not doubt that we shall be good enough men for any enemies
we may meet.'
'It cannot be that you should conquer all the world with such a
hero among you as Sir Timothy Beeswax. The idea of Sir Timothy
coming back again! What do you feel about it?'
'Very indifferent, Duchess. He won't interfere much with me, as
I have an Attorney-General of my own. You see I'm especially
safe.'
'I do believe men would do anything,' said the Duchess, turning
to Mrs Finn. 'Of course I mean in the way of politics! But I
did not think it possible that the Duke of St Bungay should again
be in the same Government with Sir Timothy Beeswax.'
CHAPTER 79
THE WHARTON WEDDING.
It was at last settled that the Wharton marriage should take
place during the second week in June. There were various reasons
for the postponement. In the first place Mary Wharton, after a
few preliminary inquiries, found herself forced to declare that
Messrs Muddocks and Cramble could not send her forth equipped as
she ought to be equipped for such a husband in so short a time.
'Perhaps they do it quicker in London,' she said to Everett with
a soft regret, remembering the metropolitan glories of her
sister's wedding. And then Arthur Fletcher could be present
during the Whitsuntide holidays, and the presence of Arthur
Fletcher was essential. And it was not only his presence at the
altar that was needed;--Parliament was not so exacting but that
he might have given that;--but it was considered by the united
families to be highly desirable that he should on this occasion
remain some days in the country. Emily had promised to attend
the wedding, and would of course be at Wharton for at least a
week. As soon as Everett had succeeded in wresting a promise
from his sister, the tidings were conveyed to the Fletchers.
It was a great step gained. When in London she was her own
mistress; but surrounded as she would be down in Hertfordshire by
Fletchers and Whartons, she must be stubborn indeed if she should
still refuse to be taken back into the flock, and be made once
more happy by marrying the man whom she confessed that she loved
with her whole heart. The letter to Arthur Fletcher containing
the news was from his brother John, and was written in a very
businesslike fashion. 'We have put off Mary's marriage for a few
days, so that you and she should be down here together. If you
mean to go on with it, now is your time.' Arthur, in answer to
this, merely said he would spend the Whitsuntide holidays at
Longbarns.
It is probable that Emily herself had some idea in her own mind
of what was being done to entrap her. Her brother's words to her
had been so strong, and the occasion of the marriage was itself
so sacred to her, that she had not been able to refuse his
request. But from the moment that she had made the promise, she
felt that she had greatly added to her own difficulties. That she
could yield to Arthur never occurred to her. She was certain of
her own persistency. Whatever might be the wishes of others, the
fitness of things required that Arthur Fletcher's wife should not
have been the widow of Ferdinand Lopez,--and required also that
the woman who had married Ferdinand Lopez should bear the results
of her own folly. Though since his death she had never spoken a
syllable against him,--if those passionate words be excepted
which Arthur himself had drawn from her,--still she had not
refrained from acknowledging the truth to herself. He had been a
man disgraced,--and she as his wife, having become his wife in
opposition to the wishes of all her friends, was disgraced also.
Let them do what they will with her, she would not soil Arthur
Fletcher's name with his infamy. Such was still her steadfast
resolution; but she knew that it would be, not endangered, but
increased in difficulty by this visit to Hertfordshire.
And there were other troubles. 'Papa,' she said, 'I must get a
dress for Everett's marriage.'
'Why not?'
'I can't bear, after all that I have cost you, putting you to
such useless expense.'
'It is not useless, and such expenses as that I can surely afford
without groaning. Do it handsomely and you will please me best.'
Then she went forth and chose her dress,--a grey silk, light
enough not to throw quite a gloom on the brightness of the day,
and yet dark enough to declare that she was not as other women
are. The very act of purchasing this, almost blushing at her own
request as she sat at the counter in her widow's weeds, was a
pain to her. But she had no one whom she could employ. On such
an occasion she could not ask her aunt Harriet to act for her, as
her aunt was distrusted and disliked. And then there was the
fitting on of the dress,--very grievous to her, as it was the
first time since the heavy black mourning came home that she had
clothed herself in other garments.
The day before that fixed for the marriage she and her father
went down to Hertfordshire together, the conversation on the way
being all in respect to Everett. Where was he to live? What was
he to do? What income would he require till he should inherit
the good things which destiny had in store for him? The old man
seemed to feel that Providence, having been so very good to his
son in killing that other heir, had put rather a heavy burden on
himself. 'He'll want a house of his own, of course,' he said, in
a somewhat lachrymose tone.
'I suppose he'll spend a good deal of his time at Wharton.'
'He won't be content to live in another man's house altogether,
my dear, and Sir Alured can allow him nothing. It means, of
course, that I must give him a thousand a year. It seems very
natural to him, I dare say, but he might have asked the question
before he took a wife to himself.'
'You won't be angry with him, papa!'
'It's no good being angry. No;--I'm not angry. Only it seems
that everybody is uncommonly well pleased without thinking who
has to pay for the piper.'
On that evening, at Wharton, Emily still wore her mourning dress.
No one, indeed, dared to speak to her on the subject, and Mary
was even afraid lest she might appear in black on the following
day. We all know in what condition is a house on the eve of a
marriage,--how the bride feels that all the world is going to be
changed, and that therefore everything is for the moment
disjointed; and how the rest of the household, including the
servants, are led to share the feeling. Everett was of course
away. He was over at Longbarns with the Fletchers, and was to be
brought to Wharton Church on the following morning. Old Mrs
Fletcher was at Wharton Hall,--and the bishop, whose services
had been happily secured. He was formally introduced to Mrs
Lopez, the use of the name for the occasion being absolutely
necessary, and with all the smiling urbanity, which as a bishop
he was bound to possess, he was hardly able not to be funereal as
he looked at her and remembered her story. Before the evening
was over Mrs Fletcher did venture to give a hint. 'We are so
glad you have come, my dear.'
'I could not stay away when Everett said he wished it.'
'It would have been very wrong; yes, my dear,--wrong. It is
your duty, and the duty of us all, to subordinate our feelings to
those of others. Even sorrow may be selfish.' Poor Emily
listened, but could make no reply. 'It is sometimes harder for
us to be mindful of others in our grief than in our joy. You
should remember, dear, that there are some who will never be
light-hearted till they see you smile.'
'Do not say that, Mrs Fletcher.'
'It is quite true;--and right that you should think of it. It
will be particularly necessary that you should think of it to-
morrow. You will have to wear a light dress, and--'
'I have come provided,' said the widow.
'Try then to make you heart as light as your frock. You will be
doing it for Everett's sake, and for your father's, and for
Mary's sake--and Arthur's. You will be doing it for the sake of
all of us on a day that should be joyous.' She could not make
any promise in reply to this homily, but in her heart of hearts
she acknowledged that it was true, and declared to herself that
she would make the effort required of her.
On the following morning the house was of course in confusion.
There was to be a breakfast after the service, and after the
breakfast the bride was to be taken away in a carriage and four
as far as Hereford on her route to Paris;--but before the great
breakfast there was of course a subsidiary breakfast,--or how
could a bishop, bride, or bridesmaids have sustained the
ceremony? At this meal Emily did not appear, having begged for a
cup of tea in her own room. The carriages to take the party to
the church, which was but the other side of the park, were
ordered at eleven, and at a quarter before eleven she appeared
for the first time in her grey silk dress, and without a widow's
cap. Everything was very plain, but the alteration was so great
that it was impossible not to look at her. Even her father had
not seen the change before. Not a word was said, though old Mrs
Fletcher's thanks were implied by the graciousness of her smile.
As there were four bridesmaids and four other ladies besides the
bride herself, in a few minutes she became obscured by the
brightness of the others,--and then they were all packed in
their carriages and taken to the church. The eyes which she most
dreaded did not meet hers till they were all standing round the
altar. It was only then that she saw Arthur Fletcher, who was
there as her brother's best man, and it was then that he took her
hand and held it for half a minute as though he never meant to
part with it, hidden behind the widespread glories of the
bridesmaids' finery.
The marriage was sweet and solemn as a kind-hearted bishop could
make it, and all the ladies looked particularly well. The veil
from London--with the orange wreath, also metropolitan--was
perfect, and as for the dress, I doubt whether any woman would
have it known it to be provincial. Everett looked the rising
baronet, every inch of him, and the old barrister smiled and
seemed, at least, to be well pleased. Then came the breakfast,
and the speech-making, in which Arthur Fletcher shone
triumphantly. It was a very nice wedding, and Mary Wharton--as
she then and still was--felt herself for a moment to be a
heroine. But, through it all, there was present to the hearts of
most of them a feeling that much more was to be effected, if
possible, than this simple and cosy marriage, and that the fate
of Mary Wharton was hardly so important to them as that of Emily
Lopez.
When the carriage and four was gone there came upon the household
the difficulty usual on such occasions of getting through the
rest of the day. The bridesmaids retired and repacked their
splendours so that they might come out fresh for other second-
rate needs, and with the bridesmaids went the widow. Arthur
Fletcher remained at Wharton with all the other Fletchers for the
night, and was prepared to renew his suit on that very day, if an
opportunity were given him, but Emily did not again show herself
till a few minutes before dinner, and then she came down with all
the appurtenances of mourning which she usually wore. The grey
silk had been put on for the marriage ceremony, and for that
only. 'You should have kept your dress at any rate for the day,'
said Mrs Fletcher. She replied that she had changed it for
Everett, and that as Everett was gone there was no further need
for to wear clothes unfitted for her position. Arthur would have
cared very little for the clothes could he have had his way with
the woman who wore them;--could he have had his way even so far
as to have found himself alone with her for half-an-hour. But no
such chance was his. She retreated from the party early, and did
not show herself on the following morning till after he had
started for Longbarns.
All the Fletchers went back,--not, however, with any intention
on the part of Arthur to abandon his immediate attempt. The
distance between the houses was not so great but that he could
drive himself over at any time. 'I shall go now,' he said to Mr
Wharton, 'because I have promised John to fish with him to-
morrow, but I shall come over on Monday or Tuesday, and stay till
I go back to town. I hope she will at any rate let me speak to
her.' The father said he would do his best, but that that
obstinate resumption of her weeds on her brother's very wedding
day had nearly broken his heart.
When the Fletchers were back at Longbarns, the two ladies were
very severe on her. 'It was downright obstinacy,' said the
squire's wife, 'and it almost makes me think that it would serve
her right to leave her as she is.'
'It's pride,' said the old lady. 'She won't give way. I said
ever so much to her, but it's no use. I feel it the more because
we have gone so much out of the way to be good to her after she
made such a fool of herself. If it goes on much longer, I shall
never forgive her again.'
'You'll have to forgive her, mother,' said her eldest son, 'let
her sins be what they may,--or else you will have to quarrel
with Arthur.'
'I do think it's very hard,' said the old lady, taking herself
out of the room. And it was hard. The offence in the first
instance had been very great and the forgiveness very difficult.
But Mrs Fletcher had lived long enough to know that when sons are
thoroughly respectable a widowed mother has to do their bidding.
Emily, through the whole wedding day, and the next day, and day
after day, remembered Mrs Fletcher's words. 'There are some who
will never be light-hearted again till they see you smile.' And
the old woman had named her dearest friends, and had ended by
naming Arthur Fletcher. She had then acknowledged to herself
that it was her duty to smile in order that others might smile
also. But how is one to smile with a heavy heart? Should one
smile and lie? And how long and to what good purpose can such
forced contentment last? She had marred her whole life. In
former days she had been proud of all her virgin glories,--proud
of her intellect, proud of her beauty, proud of that obeisance
which beauty, birth, and intellect combined, exact from all
comers. She had been ambitious as to her future life;--had
intended to be careful not to surrender herself to some empty
fool;--had thought herself well qualified to pick her own steps.
And this had come of it! They told her that she might still make
everything right, annul the past and begin the world again as
fresh as ever;--if she would only smile and study to forget! Do
it for the sake of others, they said, and then it will be done
for yourself also. But she could not conquer the past. The fire
and water of repentance, adequate as they may be for eternity,
cannot burn out or wash away the remorse of this life. They
scorch and choke,--and unless it be so there is no repentance.
So she told herself,--and yet it was her duty to be light-
hearted that others around her might not be made miserable by her
sorrow! If she could in truth be light-hearted, then would she
know herself to be unfeeling and worthless.
On the third day after the marriage Arthur Fletcher came back to
Wharton with the declared intention of remaining there till the
end of the holiday. She could make no objection to such an
arrangement, nor could she hasten her own return to London. That
had been fixed before her departure, and was to made together
with her father. She felt that she was being attacked with
unfair weapons, and that undue advantage was taken of the
sacrifice which she had made for her brother's sake. And yet,--
yet how good to her they all were! How wonderful it was that
after the thing she had done, after the disgrace she had brought
on herself and them, after the destruction of all that pride
which had once been hers, they should still wish to have her
among them! As for him,--of whom she was always thinking,--of
what nature must be his love, when he was willing to take to
himself as his wife such a thing as she had made of herself!
But, thinking of this, she would only tell herself that, as he
would not protect himself, she was bound to be his protector.
Yes;--she would protect him, though she could dream of a world
of joy that might be hers if she could do as he would ask her.
He caught her at last, and forced her to come out with him into
the grounds. He could tell his tale better as he walked by her
side than sitting restlessly on a chair and moving awkwardly
about the room, as on such an occasion he would be sure to do.
Within four walls she would have some advantage over him. She
could sit still and be dignified in her stillness. But in the
open air, when they would both be on their legs, she might not be
so powerful with him, and he perhaps might be stronger with her.
She could not refuse him when he asked her to walk with him. And
why should she refuse him? Of course he must be allowed to utter
his prayer,--and then she must be allowed to make her answer.
'I think the marriage went off very well,' he said.
'Very well. Everett ought to be a happy man.'
'No doubt he will be,--when he settles down to something.
Everything will come right for him. With some people things seem
to go smooth, don't they? They have not hitherto gone smoothly
with you and me, Emily.'
'You are prosperous. You have everything before you that a man
can wish, if only you will allow yourself to think so. Your
profession is successful, and you are in Parliament, and everyone
likes you.'
'It is all nothing.'
'That is the general discontent of the world.'
'It is all nothing--unless I have you too. Remember that I had
said so long before I was successful, when I did not dream of
Parliament; before we had heard the name of the man who came
between us and my happiness. I think I am entitled to be
believed when I say so. I think I know my own mind. There are
many men who would have been changed by the episode of such a
marriage.'
'You ought to be changed by it,--and by its result.'
'It had no such effect. Here I am, after it all, telling you as
I used to tell you before. I have to look to you for my
happiness.'
'You should be ashamed to confess it, Arthur.'
'Never;--not to you, nor to all the world. I know what it has
been. I know you are not now as you were then. You have been
his wife, and are now his widow.'
'That should be enough.'
'But, such as you are, my happiness is in your hands. If it were
not so, do you think that all my family as well as yours would
join in wishing that you may become my wife? There is nothing to
conceal. When you married this man, you know what my mother
thought of it, and what John thought of it, and his wife. They
had wanted you to be my wife; and they want it now--because they
are anxious for my happiness. And your father wishes it, and
your brother wishes it,--because they trust me, and I think that
I should be a good husband to you.'
'Good!' she exclaimed, hardly knowing what she meant by repeating
the word.
'After that you have no right to set yourself to judge what may
be best for my happiness. They who know how to judge are all
united. Whatever you may have been, they believe that it will be
good for me that you should now be my wife. After that you must
talk about me no longer, unless you will talk of my wishes.'
'Do you think that I am not anxious for your happiness?'
'I do not know;--but I shall find out in time. That is what I
have to say about myself. And as to you, is it not much the
same? I know you love me. Whatever the feeling was that
overcame you as to that other man,--it has gone. I cannot now
stop to be tender and soft in my words. The thing to be said is
too serious to me. And every friend you have wants you to marry
the man you love, and to put an end to the desolation which you
have brought on yourself. There is not one among us, Fletchers
and Whartons, whose comfort does not more or less depend on your
sacrificing the luxury of your own woe.'
'Luxury!'
'Yes; luxury. No man ever had a right to say more positively to
a woman that it is her duty to marry him, than I have to you.
And I do say it. I say it on behalf of all of us, that it is
your duty. I won't talk of my own love now, because you know it.
But I say that it is your duty to give up drowning us all in
tears, burying us in desolation. You are one of us, and should
do as all of us wish you. If, indeed, you could not love me it
would be different. There! I have said what I have got to say.
You are crying, and I will not take your answer now. I will come
again to-morrow, and then you shall answer me. But, remember when
you do so that the happiness of many people depends on what you
say.' Then he left her very suddenly and hurried back to the
house by himself.
He had been very rough with her,--but not once attempted to
touch her hand or even her arm, had spoken no soft word to her,
speaking of his own love as a thing too certain to need further
words; and he had declared himself to be so assured of her love
that there was no favour for him now to ask, nothing for which he
was bound to pray as a lover. All that was past. He had simply
declared it to be her duty to marry him, and he had told her so
with much sternness. He had walked fast, compelling her to
accompany him, had frowned at her, and had more than once stamped
his foot upon the ground. During the whole interview she had
been so near to weeping that she could hardly speak. Once or
twice she had almost thought him to be cruel;--but he had forced
her to acknowledge to herself that all that he had said was true
and unanswerable. Had he pressed her for an answer at that
moment she would have known in what words to couch a refusal.
And yet as she made her way alone back to the house she assured
herself that she would have refused.
He had given her four-and-twenty hours, and at the end of that
time she would be bound to give him an answer,--and answer which
must then be final. And as she said this to herself she found
that she was admitting a doubt. She hardly knew how not to
doubt, knowing as she did, that all whom she loved were on one
side, while on the other was nothing but the stubbornness of her
own convictions. But still the conviction was left to her. Over
and over again she declared to herself that it was not fit,
meaning thereby to assure herself that a higher duty even than
that which she owed to her friends, demanded from her that she
should be true to her convictions. She met him that day at
dinner, but he hardly spoke to her. They sat together in the
same room during the evening, but she hardly once heard his
voice. It seemed to her that he avoided even looking at her.
When they separated for the night, he parted from her almost as
though they had been strangers. Surely he was angry with her
because she was stubborn,--thought evil of her because she would
not do as others wished her! She lay awake during the long night
thinking of it all. If it might be so! Oh;--if it might be so!
If it might be done without utter ruin to her own self-respect as
a woman!
In the morning she was down early,--not having anything to say,
with no clear purpose as yet before her;--but still with a
feeling that perhaps that morning might alter all things for her.
He was the latest of the party, not coming in for prayers as he
did all the others, but taking his seat when the others had half
finished their breakfast. As he sat down he gave a general half-
uttered greeting to them all, but spoke no special word to any of
them. It chanced that his seat was next to hers, but to her he
did not address himself at all. Then the meal was over, and the
chairs were withdrawn, and the party grouped itself about with
vague, uncertain movements, as men and women do before they leave
the breakfast table for the work of the day. She meditated her
escape, but felt that she could not leave the room before Lady
Wharton or Mrs Fletcher;--who had remained at Wharton to keep
her mother company for a while. At last they went;--but then,
just as she was escaping, he put his hand upon her and reminded
her of her appointment. 'I shall be in the hall in a quarter of
an hour,' he said. 'Will you meet me there?' Then she bowed her
head to him and passed on.
She was there at the time named, and found him standing by the
hall door, waiting for her. His hat was already on his head and
his back was almost turned to her. He opened the door, and,
allowing her to pass out first, led the way to the shrubbery. He
did not speak to her till he had closed behind her the little
iron gate which separated the walk from the garden, and then he
turned upon her with one word. 'Well?' he said. She was silent
for a moment, and then he repeated his eager question: 'Well;--
well?'
'I should disgrace you,' she said, not firmly, as before, but
whispering the words.
He waited for no other assent. The form of the words told him
that he had won the day. In a moment his arms were round her,
and her veil was off, and his lips were pressed to hers;--and
when she could see his countenance the whole form of his face was
altered to her. It was bright as it used to be bright in the old
days, and he was smiling on her as he used to smile. 'My own,'
he said;--'my wife--my own!' And she had no longer the power
to deny him. 'Not yet, Arthur; not yet,' was all that she could
say.
CHAPTER 80
THE LAST MEETING AT MATCHING.
The ex-Prime Minister did not carry out his purpose of leaving
London in the middle of the season and travelling either to Italy
or Norway. He was away from London at Whitsuntide longer perhaps
than he might have been if still in office, and during this
period regarded himself as a man from whose hands all work had
been taken--as one who had been found unfit to carry any longer
a burden serviceably; but before June was over he and the Duchess
were back in London, and gradually he allowed himself to open his
mouth on this or that subject in the House of Lords,--not
pitching into everybody all round, as his wife had recommended,--
but expressing an opinion now and again, generally in support of
his friends, with the dignity which should belong to a retired
Prime Minister. The Duchess too recovered much of her good
temper,--as far at least as the outward show went. One or two
who knew her, especially Mrs Finn, were aware that her hatred and
her ideas of revenge were not laid aside; but she went on from
day to day anathematizing her special enemies, and abstained from
reproaching her husband for his pusillanimity. Then came the
question as to the autumn. 'Let's have everybody down at
Gatherum, just as we had before,' said the Duchess.
The proposition almost took away the Duke's breath. 'Why do you
want a crowd, like that?'
'Just to show them that we are not beaten because we are turned
out.'
'But inasmuch as we were turned out, we were beaten. And what
has a gathering of people at my house to do with a political
manoeuvre? Do you especially want to go to Gatherum?'
'I hate the place. You know I do.'
'Then why should you propose to go there?' He hardly yet knew
his wife well enough to understand that the suggestion had been a
joke. 'If you don't wish to go abroad--'
'I hate going abroad.'
'Then we'll remain at Matching. You don't hate Matching.'
'Ah dear! There are memories there too. But you like it.'
'My books are there.'
'Blue-books,' said the Duchess.
'And there is plenty of room if you wish to have friends.'
'I suppose we must have somebody. You can't live without your
mentor.'
'You can ask whom you please,' he said almost fretfully.
'Lady Rosina, of course,' suggested the Duchess. Then he turned
to the papers before him, and wouldn't say another word. The
matter ended in a party much as usual being collected at Matching
about the middle of October,--Telemachus having spent the early
part of the autumn with Mentor at Long Royston. There might
perhaps be a dozen guests in the house and among them were
Phineas Finn and his wife. And Mr Grey was there, having come
back from his eastern mission,--whose unfortunate abandonment of
his seat at Silverbridge had cause so many troubles,--and Mrs
Grey, who in days now long passed had been almost as necessary to
Lady Glencora, as was now her later friend Mrs Finn,--and the
Cantrips, and for a short time the St Bungays. But Lady Rosina
De Courcy on this occasion was not present. There were few there
whom my patient readers have not seen at Matching before; but
among those few was Arthur Fletcher.
'So it is to be,' said the Duchess to the member for Silverbridge
one morning. She had by this time become intimate with 'her
member', as she would sometimes call him in a joke, and had
concerned herself much as to his matrimonial prospects.
'Yes, Duchess, it is to be,--unless some unforeseen circumstance
should arise.'
'What circumstance?'
'Ladies and gentlemen do sometimes change their minds;--but in
this case I do not think it likely.'
'And why ain't you being married now, Mr Fletcher?'
'We have agreed to postpone it till next year;--so that we may
be quite sure of our own minds.'
'I know you are laughing at me; but nevertheless I am very glad
that it is settled. Pray tell her from me that I shall again
call soon as ever she is Mrs Fletcher, though I don't think she
repaid either of the last two visits I made her.'
'You must make excuses for her, Duchess.'
'Of course. I know. After all she is a most fortunate woman.
And as for you,--I regard you as a hero among lovers.'
'I'm getting used to it,' she said one day to Mrs Finn.
'Of course you'll get used to it. We get used to anything that
chance sends us in a marvellously short time.'
'What I mean is that I can go to bed and sleep, and get up and
eat my meals without missing the sound of trumpets so much as I
did at first. I remember hearing of people who lived in a mill,
and couldn't sleep when the mill stopped. It was like that with
me when our mill stopped at first. I had got myself so used to
the excitement of it, that I could hardly live without it.'
'You might have all the excitement still, if you pleased. You
need not be dead to politics because your husband is not Prime
Minister.'
'No; never again,--unless he should come back. If anyone had
told me ten years ago that I should have taken an interest in
this or that man being in Government, I should have laughed him
to scorn. It did not seem possible to me then that I should care
what became of men like Sir Timothy Beeswax and Mr Roby. But I
did get to be anxious about it when Plantagenet was shifted from
one office to another.'
'Of course you did. Do you think I am not anxious about
Phineas?'
'But when he became Prime Minister, I gave myself up to it
altogether. I shall never forget what I felt when he came to me
and told me that perhaps it might be so;--but told me also that
he would escape from it if it were possible. I was the Lady
Macbeth of the occasion all over;--whereas he was so scrupulous,
so burdened with conscience! As for me, I would have taken it by
any means. Then it was the old Duke played the part of the three
witches to a nicety. Well, there hasn't been any absolute
murder, and I haven't quite gone mad.'
'Nor need you be afraid though all the woods of Gatherum should
come to Matching.'
'God forbid! I will never see anything of Gatherum again. What
annoys me most is, and always was, that he wouldn't understand
what I felt about it;--how proud I was that he should be Prime
Minister, how anxious that he should be great and noble in his
office;--how I worked for him, and not at all for any pleasure
of my own.'
'I think he did feel it.'
'No;--not as I did. At last he liked the power,--or rather
feared the disgrace of losing it. But he had no idea of the
personal grandeur of the place. He never understood that to be
Prime Minister in England is as much as to be an Emperor in
France, and much more than being President of America. Oh, how I
did labour for him,--and how did he scold me for it in those
quiet little stinging words of his! I was vulgar!'
'Is that a quiet word?'
'Yes;--as he used it;--and indiscreet, and ignorant, and
stupid. I bore it all, though sometimes I was dying with
vexation. Now it's all over, and here we are as humdrum as
anyone else. And the Beeswaxes, and the Robys, and the Droughts,
and the Pountneys, and the Lopezes, have all passed over the
scene. Do you remember that Pountney affair, and how he turned
the poor man out of the house?'
'It served him right.'
'It would have served them all right to be turned out;--only
they were there for a purpose. I did like it in a way, and it
makes me sad to think that the feeling can never come back again.
Even if they should have him back again, it would be a very lame
affair to me then. I can never again rouse myself to the effort
of preparing food and lodging for half the Parliament and their
wives. I shall never again think that I can help to rule England
by coaxing unpleasant men. It is done and gone, and can never
come back again.'
Not long after this the Duke took Mr Monk, who had come down to
Matching for a few days, out to the very spot on which he had sat
when he indulged himself in lecturing Phineas Finn on
Conservatism and Liberalism generally, and then asked the
Chancellor of the Exchequer what he thought of the present state
of public affairs. He himself had supported Mr Gresham's
government, and did not belong to it because he could not at
present reconcile himself to filling any office. Mr Monk did not
scruple to say that in his opinion the present legitimate
division of parties was preferable to the Coalition which had
existed for three years. 'In such an arrangement,' said Mr Monk,
'there must always be a certain amount of distrust, and such a
feeling is fatal to any great work.'
'I think I distrusted no one till separation came,--and when it
did come it was not caused by me.'
'I am not blaming anyone now,' said the other; 'but men who have
been brought up with opinions altogether different, even with
different instincts as to politics, who from their mother's milk
have been nourished on codes of thought altogether opposed to
each other, cannot work together with confidence even though they
may desire the same thing. The very ideas which are sweet as
honey to the one are bitter as gall to the other.'
'You think, then, that we made a great mistake?'
'I will not say that,' said Mr Monk. 'There was a difficulty at
the time, and that difficulty was overcome. The Government was
carried on, and was on the whole respected. History will give
you credit for patriotism, patience, and courage. No man could
have done it better than you did;--probably no other man of the
day so well.'
'But it was not a great part to play?' The Duke in his
nervousness, as he said this, could not avoid the use of that
questioning tone which requires an answer.
'Great enough to satisfy the heart of a man who has fortified
himself against the evil of ambition. After all, what is it that
the Prime Minister of such a country as this should chiefly
regard? Is it not the prosperity of the country? Is it not often
that we want great measures, or new arrangements that shall be
vital to the country. Politicians now look for grievances, not
because grievances are heavy, but trusting that the honour of
abolishing them may be great. It is the old story of the needy
knife-grinder who, if left to himself, would have no grievance of
which to complain.'
'But there are grievances,' said the Duke. 'Look at monetary
denominations. Look at our weights and measures.'
'Well; yes. I will not say that everything has as yet been
reduced to divine order. But when we took office three years ago
we certainly did not intend to settle those difficulties.'
'No, indeed,' said the Duke, sadly.
'But we did do all that we were meant to do. For my own part,
there is only one thing that I regret, and one only which you
should regret also till you have resolved to remedy it.'
'What thing is that?'
'Your retirement from official life. If the country is to lose
your services for the long course of years during which you will
probably sit in Parliament, then I shall think that the country
has lost more than it gained by the Coalition.'
The Duke sat for a while silent, looking at the view, and, before
answering Mr Monk,--while arranging his answer,--once or twice
in a half-absent way, called his companion's attention to the
scene before him. But during this time he was going through an
act of painful repentance. He was condemning himself for a word
or two that had been ill-spoken by himself, and which, since the
moment of its utterance, he had never ceased to remember with shame.
He told himself now, after his own secret fashion, that he must
do penance for these words by the humiliation of a direct
contradiction of them. He must declare that Caesar would at some
future time be prepared to serve under Pompey. Then he made his
answer. 'Mr Monk,' he said, 'I should be false if I were to deny
that it pleases me to hear you say so. I have thought much of
all that for the last two or three months. You may probably have
seen that I am not a man endowed with that fortitude which
enables many to bear vexations with an easy spirit. I am given
to fretting, and I am inclined to think that a popular minister
in a free country should be so constituted as to be free from
that infirmity. I shall certainly never desire to be at the head
of Government again. For a few years I would prefer to remain
out of office. But I will endeavour to look forward to a time
when I may again perhaps be of some humble use.'
End of Project Gutenberg Etext of The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollope