 CHAPTER XII. 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 at any rate predicted, that the coalition ministry would not live a month. There had been men, such as Lord Vaughan on one side and Mr. Boffin on the other, who had found themselves stranded disagreeably with no certain position, unwilling to sit immediately 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 the 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 ideas 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 untractable element of support was felt to be a great comfort. Then too there was a set in the house, at the 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 were always in doubtful times individually flattered by ministers, who have great privileges according to them of speaking and dividing, and who were 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 rulers. It was not even yet perhaps wise to count them out, or to leave them to talk to 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 that little might be easily 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 catanine tales 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 the minister on any point, and as he had never been satisfied with the 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 all 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 Earl and Rattler that care was necessary, that the house taken as a whole was not in the condition to be manipulated with easy freedom, that Sir Orlando must be made to understand that he was not strong enough to depend upon 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 probably of Mr. Rattler, and was now standing at the window of Brooks Club with Barrington Earl. 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 an 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 is regards to the country at large. He knows that it doesn't become her 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 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 were 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 in which, if you were to poll the people, home rule would carry nearly every voter, except the members themselves. You wouldn't give it to them. Certainly not, any more than I would allow a son to ruin himself because he asked me. But I would endeavor to teach them that they can get nothing by home rule, that their taxes would be heavier, their 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 haptarkey didn't mold itself into a nation in a day. Men were governed then, and could be and were molded. I feel sure that even in Ireland there is a straight above 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 fighting about religion. Even now home rule is regarded by the multitude as a weapon to be used against Protestantism on 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've 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 that 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 and 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 goes just 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 them. That's all. Then there arose a legal difficulty which caused much trouble to the coalition ministry. They 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 Grogrom, 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 wool sack 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 his 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 to have a leg to stand upon. He was informed that his services in the house were too valuable to be so 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 Ramston, 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. Bunk, 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 his 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 of the House, which thought that Mr. Bunk had disregarded its just claims. Mr. Bunk had refused to relieve the brewers from their licenses. Now the brewers had for some years been agitating about their licenses. And it is acknowledged in politics that any measure is to be carried or to be left out in the cold uncarried and neglected, according to the number of deputations which maybe 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 its body, all brewers, and the average wealth of a deputation of brewers would buy up half of London. All the brewers in the House had been among 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. Bunk had been firm, more than one of the ministry had wished to yield, but he had discussed the matter with his chief, and they were both very firm. The Duke had never doubted. Mr. Bunk 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 brewers' licenses, and there was almost a general opinion that the coalition would be broken up. Mr. Bunk would certainly not remain in office if the brewers were to be relieved from their licenses. 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. Bunk carried his point. The brewers' licenses 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 arose a general feeling that its strength had been impaired. CHAPTER XIII. Mr. Wharton Complains I think you have betrayed me. This accusation was brought by Mr. Wharton against Mrs. Robie 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 a considerable advantage to the lady whom he was accusing. Mrs. Robie undoubtedly had betrayed her brother-in-law. She had been false to the trust proposed 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 his girl should see as little as possible a Ferdinand Lopez, but had hesitated to give a positive order that she should not meet him. He had indeed himself taken her to a dindiparty at which he knew that she would meet him. But Mrs. Robie had betrayed him. Since the dindiparty she had arranged a meeting at her own house on 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 to him 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 the severe solemnity and apparent consciousness of ill usage which almost broke her father's heart. Your aunt must have had 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 a 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 very 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 endeavored to be a good friend to Emily. It is not being a good friend who were 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 Omniums. 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 that England, or indeed Europe, can give. And I think it is something in a young man's favor 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 to know anything about him. He has twenty thousand 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 the 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 dunes 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 that 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'd 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 him every hour of his present life. That sister-in-law of his was 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 of 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 of foreign extraction and known by a foreign name. Others would not suspect a man of being of Jewish blood because he was swarthy or even object to him if he were a Jew by descent. But it was wonderful to have 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 Provencio, that it could not be that without magic his daughter, who had shunned the wealthy, curled darlings of our nation, would ever have to incur a general mock, run from her garden to the sooty bosom of such a thing as this 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, ever it came in while the old man was still walking up and down the drawing-room. Where have you been? asked the father, not carrying 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 any reason, sir, why I should not? You know that 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 were 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 it 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 could get into the house. I don't know any well to do blaggard 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 her sense of filial duty, or else he must give up his own judgment and yield to her in a matter as to which he believed that such yielding would be most pernicious to her own interests. His or two he really knew nothing of the man's means, nor, if he could have his own way, that he wants 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 a 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 sixty thousand 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 would 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 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 started once. Start some wither, 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 twelve months 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 Allured, 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 Allured Wharton was a baronet, with a handsome old family place on the Y in Herefordshire, 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 Allured 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 especially 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 become almost ashamed of it since, as he was want to declare was now the case, every prosperous tallow chandler 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 a season in London, 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 could 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 Allured 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 that the assertion of social equality on the part of men of lower rank to amount to the taking of 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 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 Allured 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 Allured 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 Allured and Mr Wharton were second cousins and close friends. Sir Allured 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 the family. He dearly loved Sir Allured and loved Sir Allured's wife and two daughters. Nevertheless the second week at Wharton Hall became always 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 Allured in reference to Dresden. Sir Allured had come to him at his chambers, and the two old men were sitting together near the open window. Sir Allured 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 his hotel or his wig-makers. 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 the low, sad voice, in that case we should not go down to Herefordshire 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 is one gross older. You and I, Abel, are just of an age. Why should you talk to me like this? You were 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 plank 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 Allure had 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 endeavored to conceal the extent of his daughter's love. Do you mean that Emily favors him? I am afraid so. And would she do anything without your sanction? 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. Think, why should you run away to Dresden? Because she is unhappy. She will not marry him, or even see him of her bidet. But she is near him. Hereafter is a long way off, said the baronet, pleading. Change of scene is what she should have, said the father. There can't be more of a change than she'd 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 thought 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 assate her. A darkness had fallen over his 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 that 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 journeys 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 be there 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 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 for me to go out of town. 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 that I will not see him. He only shook his head, meaning to imply that a promise which 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 to be 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 will certainly keep it. If we must be unhappy, still we 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 thirtieth. Sir Allure would seem to wish it. Very well, Papa, I shall be quite ready. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of The Prime Minister This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollope Chapter 14 A Lovers' Perseverance Ferdinand Lopez learned immediately through Mrs. Roby that the early departure for Herefordshire 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 candor. 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 an 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 this folly. That he, he, Sexty 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 path. 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 the heaviness of spirits which had never left him since that fatal day, Hubert 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 cooperation. 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 that seven hundred and fifty 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 to 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 upon 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 am 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 favorite speculation. In a few days, however, the same matter was brought before Sexty's eyes from another direction. He learned from a sidewind 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, airy manner, the result of which was that he had gone rather deep into two or three American minds 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 for Herefordshire, Lopez, in compliance with Mrs. Robie's councils, 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 declined 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 receded 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 that I can do anything for you, Mr. Lopez, he said. There was a 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 then, as I can say now, that your daughter has 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 as 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 as 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 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 that 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 chambers 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 the 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 favored 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 these 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-laws bless you, bless you. Something yet had to be done before the blessing would come, or the girl, or the money. He had today asserted his own material success speaking of himself as of a moneyed man, and the 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 old Barrister's money. After leaving Lincoln's inn, he went at once to Barclay Street and was soon closeted with Mrs. Roby. You can get her here before they 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 to 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 that I was as sure of her as I am of myself. Tell her that, and tell her that I think she owes it to me to say one word to me before she goes into the country. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. 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 as yet gone must be shortly told. He had been the second son, as he was now the second brother, of a Herefordshire squire, and dowed with a much larger property than that belonging to Sir Allured. John Fletcher Esquire of Longbarnes, some twelve miles from Wharton, was a considerable man in Herefordshire. This present squire had married Sir Allured'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 young 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 Herefordshire, 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 impicuniosity, 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 two 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 his extremist 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 sixty thousand pounds was, of course, known to the Long Barn's 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 to 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 there by old Wharton and treated with every 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 at 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 Baronette spoke to him, the father having deputed the loathsome task to his friend, being unwilling himself even to hint 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 Baronette mournfully shook his head. It was sad to find that Whartons could go so far astray. He goes to Carlton Terrace to the Duchesses, continued the young man. I don't think that that is very much in his favour, said the Baronette. 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 Duchesses. I hate coalitions, said the Baronette. 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 Duchesses' parties, but I suppose I should go if I were asked. Sir Al Ured 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 Al Ured, 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 ant 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 Al Ured. 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 Al Ured. I think she'll forget all about 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 but she'll tell me. She's too honest to be able to lie. Has he got any money? My cousin seems to think that 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 Al Ured, 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 Al Ured. 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 born 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 daresay she knows what will suit her best. I've nothing to say against the man, accepting 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 they 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 man or that because they're 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 Y 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 anything that can befall him. If he makes a mistake it may be put right. But with a woman's marrying, vestigia nulla retrosum. 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 sanctioned 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 where 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 judgment, and ascertain if it be possible whether my distaste 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 bypass 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 all. He understood the girl's character sufficiently to be sure that she would not be wafted about from one lover to another by a change of scene. Taking her to Dresden or to New Zealand would only confirm in her passions such a girl as Emily Wharton. Nothing could 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 on the river's side and began to pitch stones off the path in 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 should 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 many 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 has a hump, another can hardly see out of his imperfect eye. 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 out 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 clearly 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 judgment or led away in 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 hay-making. 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 here 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 Herefordshire and other places generally. If I've got to dress I'd better get across the park as quick as I can go. And so he left them. Mary turned round 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.' End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of The Prime Minister This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollop. 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 Mary, which, however, as is the case whenever such attempts are forced, was a failure. There had been a hay-making harvest home which was supposed to give the 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 seized 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 over-tasked. Powell doesn't keep any cats about the place but would catch mice. But I am not quite sure that hay-making 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 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 about four hundred acres on hand and I keep my accounts pretty regularly. Johnson is a very good man, I daresay, 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 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, and 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 married 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 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 be 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 girls' folly and perverseness on this head were known to them all, but as yet her greater folly and worse perverseness, her visiated taste and dreadful partiality for that 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 Vauns, 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 stubborn, to comply with the wishes of the families. But to love one below herself, a man without a father, a foreigner, a black Portuguese nameless Jew, merely because he had a bright eye and a hook nose and a glib tongue, that a girl from the Wharton 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 Allured 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 the perfect contentment of old Lady Wharton, but not equally so to that of her daughter-in-law. I'm afraid she is 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 the time. I suppose Mother said the younger Mrs. Fletcher, who called her husband's mother, mother, and her own mother, Mama, a girl needn't marry a man unless she likes him. But she should try to like him if it is 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 lull! 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 as 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 would suit me. Exactly. I don't know 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 up 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 traveling seems easier. Suppose you go as far as St. Petersburg and see if that does you any good. If it don't, you need to 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 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 wartons and the vons and the Fletchers was very strong. He's a man I should say you wouldn't let into long barns. 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 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 once in 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 to set out on your travels. As far as I saw I should say he is a clever fellow. I don't doubt that. And a gentleman. I don't know that he has not said, Arthur. I've no right to say a 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 of 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 is 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 oneself happy, and the other is to make other people happy. The latter answers best. I can't add to her happiness by hanging about London. That's a quibble. It isn't her happiness we're talking about, nor yet you're 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 it 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 just 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 shooting on the first. No, I daresay 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 and Perthshire. I daresay I shall go there and take a share with them. That's better than going into all the 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 Long Barns or Wharton. Not at Long Barns, certainly, I should say, replied John, fancy mother having to curtsy to her as Mrs. Lopez. And I doubt whether Sir Al Ured 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 horse flesh or beef if horse flesh were as good as beef, and never had an association 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 ever 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 would have tried once more, wouldn't you? You'd have gone about like a broken wing-dold hen and have softened me that way. And now poor Arthur has had his wing broken. You mustn't let on to know that 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 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 that won't pity her.