 Chapter sixty-two of the Prime Minister. 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, many 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-emolation, and there were not wanting those who felt and expressed a sympathy for a man who could feel so acutely the effect of his own wrongdoing. 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 the Duchess. No doubt Finneas 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's slide was in the front rank of these accusers. He may be said to have led the little 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 Finneas Finn. Against Finneas Finn he had had old grudges, which, however, age had never cooled. He could therefore write with a most powerful pen when discussing the death of that unfortunate man, the late candidate for Silverbridge, crushing his two foes and the single grasp of his journalistic fist. Finneas 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 basic 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 of Blackamore almost white. Perhaps it came to pass that some heavy weapons were hurled at Finneas Finneas, but none so heavy as those hurled by Quintus's 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 the 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? But 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 Cresus, who, when asked to pay it, had at once acknowledged the necessity of doing so? Could not Mr. Finne 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, Cresus 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 the greed by which Mr. Finneas Finne had been characterised in all the relations of life? As for the Prime Minister, we, as Mr. Quintus's 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 on 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 has been saved by the services of his man of all work, Finneas Finne, 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 stigmatising as untrue, and to throw the whole blame where but 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 ten-way railway station was besplattered. Of course such an article had considerable effect. It was apparent at once that there was ample room for an action for libel against the newspaper on the part of Finneas Finne, if not on that of the Duke. But it was equally apparent that Mr. 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 of evil. Any pecuniary penalty might be more than recouped by the largeness of the 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 of this, Mr. Quintus Slide, was supposed to have considered very well. Finneas 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 form a period of Mr. Finneas' 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 would certainly not suit others. As has been before remarked, there are former chronicles respecting Finneas Finn, and in them may be found adequate cause for this conviction on his part. To know outside it 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 Finneas that he ought to bring the action. Among these none were more eager than his old friend, Lord Chilton, the master of the brake hounds, a man who really loved Finneas, 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 Chilton 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 horse's backs. A draft of hounds was being sent down to a friend in Scotland. And there was a committee of masters to sit on a moot question concerning a neutral covert in the XXX country, of which committee 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. "'Finneas,' he said, "'you are bound to do it. If you will allow a fellow like that to say such things of you, why by heaven any man may say anything of anybody?' Now Finneas could hardly explain to Lord Chilton his objection to the proposed action. A lady was closely concerned, and that lady was Lord Chilton's sister. "'I certainly shall not,' said Finneas. "'And why? Just because he wishes me to do it, I should be falling into the little pit that he has dug for me. He couldn't hurt you. What have you got to be afraid of? Ruat quailum. There were certain angels' children 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 to the dirt if this man were empowered to bring witness after witness into court? My wife would be named. For ought I know your wife? By guh! He'd find himself wrong there. Leave a chimney-sweep alone when you see him, Chilton. 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 duh 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 that an action should be taken, but she was more easily convinced that Lord Chilton. 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? Chilton answered 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. 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 any one should say that 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 his continued failures in life and final absolute ruin. He fretted and fumed and was very wretched, and at last expressed to the 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. 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 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 has referred to my past life, and in seeking to justify those remarks, he would be unable 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. You will explain all this to the Duke? I am afraid you will find the Duke very urgent. I must then 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 judgment 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. She 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 have been cordial. It was not a moment for his cordiality. That just says that if you want to get a really genial smile from him, you must talk to him about Cork's souls. 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 Rezina 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 that 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 Glenn has been at the work for the last 15 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 buyered to you, said Phineas, laughing. Rather than 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 ever read in the 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 charge 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 Drout had rebelled, and had tried to fall with the prime minister, and had greatly failed. Phineas determined that if frowned upon he would resign, but that he would certainly 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 that the occasion was sought for by the duke. Mr. Phine, said the duke, I wanted to have a word or two with you. Certainly, said Phineas, arresting his steps. One spoke to you about 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 said that there should be such dishonesty, and that nothing can be done to stop it? Orbiton 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. Phine? 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 that you'll come with us. A, I make a point of it, Mr. Phine. Phineas did promise and thought that he had succeeded in mastering one of the difficult passages in that book. End of Chapter 62. CHAPTER 63 THE DUTCHES AND HER FRIEND But the duke, though he was 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 his death, that by his defence of himself he had brought the man's blood on his head, was made and repeated till those around him did not dare to mention the name of Lopez in his hearing. Even his wife was restrained and became fearful, and did her heart of hearts began almost to wish for that retirement to which he had occasionally eluded 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 his 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 yoke now spoke to her much less frequently of her husband's political position than had been his habit. Through the first year and a half of the present ministerial arrangement he had been constant in his advice to her, and had always, even when things were difficult, been cheery and full of hope. He still came frequently to the house, but did not often see her. And when he did see her he seemed to avoid all illusion, 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 Earl 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 was 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. The bin prime minister is something after all, and they can't rob him of that, said the Duchess, recurring again to her own husband. I have fancy sometimes that the charm of the thing is growing upon him. Upon the duke? Yes. He is always talking of the delight he will have in giving it up. He is always Cincinnati-ess going back to his peaches and his plows. 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. To 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 that 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 out a 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 symbol of brass and nothing can silence. He went on to declare with that loud voice of his that the death of Lopez was a good riddance of bad rubbish. Plantagenet turned away and left the room and shut himself up. He didn't declare to himself that he'd dismissed 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. Bungie 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 Finneas 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 much 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 labors. 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 for endurance? Will he be able to go on much longer? No, 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 and I know how many things there are of which we are both thinking in common. You haven't quarreled with Plantagenet? Quarrowed with him? Good heavens, no. Of course I know that 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 more than that, very 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. Bungie, except the young woman whom he had petted all his life as Lady Glen Quarrow. But I am very serious, she continued, and I may say 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 Glen, I cannot allow that to pass without contradiction. Do not suppose that I'm finding fault, or even that I'm ungrateful. No one rejoiced as I rejoiced. No one still feels so much pride in it as I feel. I would have given 10 years of my life to make him Prime Minister, and now I would give five 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 to 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 heavy. But it's 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 honor. He condemns men in his mind, and he condemns himself for condescending to condemn them. He spends one quarter of an hour in 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 worn and care-worn. He does not eat and he does not sleep. Of course I watch him. Does his doctor see him? Never. When I asked him to say once 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 at 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 health that he ought to give it up? I don't say that. I don't dare to say it. I don't dare to recommend anything. No consideration of health would tell with him at all. If he were to die tomorrow as the penalty of doing something useful tonight, he wouldn't think twice about it. If he wanted to make him stay where he is, the way to do it would be 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 more 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 all the 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 Ramston or Mrs. McPherson? 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 forever. 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. That he put his hand behind a 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-in-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 well-recognized leaders of parties could command a sufficient following for carrying on of the 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, synsonatises. But their plows and peaches did not suffice to them, and they longed again to be in every mouth and to have, if not their deeds, then even their omissions blazed in every paragraph. The palette 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 euk had been the foremost. The Duchess had hardly said more than the truth when she declared that her husband's promotion had been affected by their old friend. But it is sometimes easier to make than to 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 euk himself, who during the last two years had been constantly urgent 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 probably was right in saying that her husband didn't want to give it up now. But he, the Duke of St. Bungie, 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 of the command of the ministry had not been very much impaired. A few always fall 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 the 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. Bungie, 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 symptoms of impatience in Mr. Dobony, and Mr. Gresham had snorted once or twice as though eager for battle. End of Chapter 63. Chapter 64 of The Prime Minister. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nicholas Clifford. The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 64 The New K. G. Early in June had died the Marquis of Mount Fidget. In all England there was no older family than that of the fishy Fidgets, whose baronial castle of fishy 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 been commenced in the days of Edward I. It has always belonged to the fishy Fidget family, who, with the persistence that is becoming rarer every day, has clung to every acre that it ever owned and has added acre to acre at every age. The consequence has been that the existing Marquis of Mount Fidget 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 fishy Fidgets, a man of pleasure. If the truth may 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 than 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 Fidget 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 as sensual a brute as has 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 Fidget had for many years passed 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 honour 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 human or divine wrath could inflict. He had a large family, but they were all 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 fishy 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 could 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 of himself. The late Duke had been a knight, and when he had died it was thought that his successor would succeed also to the Ribbon. The new Duke had been at that 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, 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 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 manners had been seen and utilized. Now, whether the crown interfered or not, a matter on which no one short of a right of her newspaper articles dares to make a suggestion till time shall have made mellow the doings of sovereigns and their ministers. The suggestion was made. The Duke of St. Bungie 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 honor 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 set 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 honor. 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 that 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 Fidget, a man whom he had never seen and of whom he had never heard. The new Marquis and his or two resided in Italy, and men only knew of him that he was odious to his uncle. But he had inherited all the fishy Fidget estates, and was now possessed of immense wealth and great honor. He ventured, he said, to represent to the Prime Minister that for generations past the Marquises of Mount Fidget had been honored 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 at night of the garter, said our Duke to the old Duke. He is the Marquis of Mount Fidget, and next to yourself perhaps the richest peer in Great Britain. Have riches anything to do with it? Something certainly. You would not name a pauper peer. Yes, if he was a man whose career had been highly honorable 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 honored by the garter. Wealth, 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 this claim of the Marquis of Mount Fidget, 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 favor 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 best consult the honor of the country by allowing Her Majesty to bestow this act of grace upon a subject who is 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 not 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 honor upon many than it could do if given to any one 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 that position which he ought to enjoy unless he be 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. One said the Duke of St. Bungie I should recommend to 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 offense. 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 were determined to look to what you call dessert 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, of course, a good deal of envy, which might be avoided by either of the 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 could 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 Early Bird? The old Duke opened his mouth and lifted up his hands in unaffected surprise. The Earl of Early Bird 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 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 noble one possessed of a moderate fortune, and his 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 had 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 Early Bird, 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 Cardinals hat, but he had grown into fame and had not escaped the notice of the Prime Minister. Do you know anything against Lord Early Bird? asked the Prime Minister. Certainly nothing against him, Duke. Nor anything in his favour? I know him very well. I think I may say intimately there isn't a better man breathing. An 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 of a man? But according to my view he is not the sort of person whom one would wish to see made a night 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 a great heart and of many virtues. Only the country and her majesty on behalf of the country should delight the 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 you for a moment to listen to my view on the matter. There were 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-left tenet of the county a wig. 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 left-handencies, and that so 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. Bungie 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 aptnesses and fitnesses in accordance with which the sovereign of the day was induced to grace with the garter such a man as the late Marquess of Mount Fidget 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 with the man to be selected as lieutenant of a county, will be the man whose selection will be most beneficial to the county, and the knights of the garter will be chosen for their real virtues. I think you are quicksotic. 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 thralldom, 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 and dispute it had better stand over yet for a few days. When the prime minister said this, the old yoke knew very well that he intended to have his own way. And so it was, a week passed by, and then the younger yoke wrote to the elder yoke 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 yoke to declare his freedom from all those bonds which had hitherto been binding on the heads of government. Had the yoke selected himself, certainly no offence would have been given. Had the Marquess of Mount Fidget 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 yoke 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 yoke of Omnium would surely know that the yoke of St. Bungie could not support a quixotic prime minister. And yet the younger yoke, the telemicus 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 yoke 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? End of chapter 64. Chapter 65 of the Prime Minister. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Nicholas Clifford. The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollop. 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. That 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 never mentioned without being read by the unfortunate duke. But others had ceased to talk of 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, covering all his son 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 he 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 now 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 did 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 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 time increased in its fervor 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 be but 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 should 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 knew well 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. Three Court Temple, 24th July, 1878 My dear Mr. Wharton, it is a matter of great regret to me that we should see so little of each other, and especially of regret that I should never now 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 it 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 has 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 least. 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 it should be looked back upon as a black chasm which we have bridged and got over, and to which we need 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 two manifests 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 seen 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 so bad, so were others bad. There were many worse than he. Which 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 Arthofletcher. 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 at 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. His or two, 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 crepe. 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, had been more strict in maintaining the restraints of widowhood as enjoined. How then could he bidder 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 morning, 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 Herefordshire, she asked? No, he is up in town attending 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 so glad if you would have somebody sometimes. I shouldn't think then that I was such a restraint to 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. And 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 any one, said Arthur Fletcher, that she should emulate 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 sort of thing. Why should she not go down to Herefordshire? 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. End of Chapter 65. Chapter 66 of the Prime Minister. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nicholas Clifford. The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 66. The End of the Session. The Duke of St. Bungie had been very much disappointed. He had contradicted with a repetition of no's 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, and given with 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 thee Duke, and had listened to the bold liberalism of old Earl Gray, both in the lower and 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 on 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 a prime minister was, to his ideas, very strong. The thing described as quixotic had now been done, and the Duke of St. Bungie was a disappointed man. For an hour or two he thought he must gently secede from all private councils 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 learned his political rudiments, and was very odious to him. But in all party compacts there must be inner parties, peculiar bonds, and confidences 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 neighbor. 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 which he had given 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 bad him not to desert her, and he had not only given her his promise, but he had converted that promise to 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 you could know them both well, but had hardly as yet given the Duchess credit for so true a 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, he who had induced him to fill it was responsible. What right had he, the Duke of St. Bungie, to be angry because his friend was not all wise at all points? Let the droughts and the drummons 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 this all out, he again whispered some cheery words to the Prime Minister as they sat listening to the denunciations of Lord Faun, 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 the 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 humor of the old man prevailed. He has a wonderful gift of saying nothing with second rate dignity, whispered the repentant friend, speaking of Lord Faun. A very honest man said the Prime Minister in return. A sort of bastard honesty, by precept out of stupidity, there was 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 night of the garter. It was not, he said, personal disappointment in himself. There were half a dozen peers whom he would 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 conveniently be 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 and less 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 has been much too just, the oyster shells become 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 Manor, 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 counter-poise to the iniquity displayed and 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 quarreled with all his colleagues or else that all his colleagues had quarreled with the Prime Minister. Mr. Sly 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. Bungie nor Lord Drummond would now even speak to their own chief, so thoroughly where 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 to 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. Sly'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. Sly 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 maybe the determination to do a thing, fixed as maybe 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. Sly that he ought not to have set his cabinet against him, but when he had in fact done so, then he believed what Mr. Sly told him. As soon almost as the irrevocable 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 pit, or appeal, or a palmiston 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, that 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 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. Bungie, 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 in variance with the acquisition of such honors as that now thrust upon him. He could see his own obstinacy and could even hate the pretentious love of virtue which he had himself 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 and shown himself to you if he had 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 any 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 which it contained. I have quarreled 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 the 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 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 that 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 of 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 very 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 up to the 11th of August. In the memory of 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 humor. I think, said Mr. Monk, that the country is very prosperous. I don't know that I ever remember a trade to have been more evenly satisfactory. Ah, yes, that's very well for the country and ought I supposed to satisfy us. It satisfies me, said Mr. Monk, and me in a way, but if you were walking about in a very tight pair of boots and an agony with your feet would you be able just then to relish the news that agricultural wages and that parish had gone up six months 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 even 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 that upon the whole they may be worn with advantage. What does the country say to that? The country has never said 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 us to the Lord's 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 the ministers in 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. Grogrum 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 beaten simply because the House desires to beat us. I am told that 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 Ramston 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 Lord's amendments in the House of Commons and it did not come until the 8th of August, the matter was exactly as the Duke had said. Sir Gregory Grogrum, with a great deal of earnestness, supported the Lord's amendment as he was an honor 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 an 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 magnet. He went into the matter at great length. He began by saying that it was not a party question. The bill, which he had the honor 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 wool sack. But from those alterations he was obliged to dissent. Then he said some very heavy things against the Lord Chancellor and increased in a serbity as he described what he called the altered mind of his honorable and learned friend, the Attorney General. He then made some very uncomplementary illusions 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 at the House of Commons. But that was the course taken on this occasion by Sir Timothy Beeswax and it was so far taken with success that the Lord's 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 yoke. The old yoke'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 staunched to the last got out of town as quick as the trains could carry them. End of chapter 66. Chapter 67 of the Prime Minister. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Nicholas Clifford. The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollop. 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 it 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 offenses. 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 by asking Mrs. Lopez down to matching we shall only be a very small party. Now the very name of Lopez was terrible to the Duke's ears. Anything which recalled that 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 were a thousand reasons I could not have it. Then I will say nothing more about it but there is 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 now wants to marry her knew her long before she had seen Lopez and had offered to her ever 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 endeavouring now 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 empty as it ever is. The streets at the West End were deserted, the houses were shut up. The very sweepers of the crossing 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 apparently gone 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 cook heights and hook heights. Those who escaped trouble under the auspices of Mr. Cook and those who boldly combatted the extortions of foreign in-keepers and the anti-anglic entendancies 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. Warhurton 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 because she had left her car than 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 is very simple and could not be taken as other than friendly. If she had been simply Mrs. Palacer 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 acquaintances she was the only one who had ventured to call since Lopez had destroyed himself. Mrs. Robie 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. Warhurton 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 that it seemed 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. Then I may be dead for ought that any of us know. Do not say that, papa. Of course any one 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 more than it had meant in former years. Since Lopez had died, Mr. Wharton had not once died at the Elden. 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 would determine 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 Elden, and disliked Wist, so he said. Till at last he spoke more plainly. You were dull enough here all day, and I will not leave you in the evenings. There was a pertinacious tenderness in this which he 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 ensure to herself that Arthur Fletcher should not be there? Of course she would be at Long Barns, and how could she prevent his coming over from Long Barns 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 of all the dearest to her. Of course if she could wipe out the past as with a wet towel, if she could put the crepe off 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 that other man should even touch her. It was forbidden to her, she believed, by all the canons of womanhood, even to think of love again. There ought to be nothing left for her but crepe and weepers. She had done it all by her own obstinacy, and she could make no compensation either to her family or to 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 be in her atreason. On that occasion she did not yield to her father, conquering him as she had conquered him before by the pleading of her looks rather than of 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 Allured. The reader may perhaps remember that Sir Allured's heir, the heir to the title and property, was the nephew for whom he entertained no affection whatever. This Wharton had been discarded by all the Whartons as the profligate drunkard. Some years ago Sir Allured had endeavored to reclaim the man, and had spent perhaps more money than he 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 twelve-month, and had done no good whatever. There had been no hope. The man was strong and likely to live, and after a while 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 Allured's letter was certain, and he was equally certain that he had left no son. These tidings were quite as important to Mr. Wharton as to Sir Allured, more important ever at 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. Letters for him were to be sent to Obann and might or might not reach him in the course of a month. But in the man of Sir Allured'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 quite impossible. But ever at 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 would be cured, or would almost be made 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 Allured 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 laborer on the estate and every tenant and laborer's wife would be in an abnormal condition and unfit for the duties of life till they should have seen Everett as heir of the property. Lady Wharton went so far as to tell Emily which bedroom was being prepared for Everett, a bedroom very different in honor from any by the occupation of which he had as yet been graced, and there were twenty new points as to wills and new deeds as to which the present baronate 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 Allured. 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 Allured's if the old heir would give him his counsel and the young one his assistance. This change in affairs occasion 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 baronate and did not pay much regard to his own chance of succession. But the position was one which could shoot his son 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 almost 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 after her writing such a letter as that? It is my duty to tell you that you ought to go. You cannot think that it 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 been 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 that 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 even 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 should she look if he were to be there? It was not to be expected that the Wharton should seclude themselves because of her grief. This very change in the circumstances of the property would be sure of itself to bring the Fletcher's to Wharton. And then how should she look at him? How should she 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 ever at himself? It was then about six o'clock, and he was going to leave London by the night mail, that he should be given a little 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 feel so 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 members of his family. He could not wait, even for one night, in order that he might travel with him. Sir Allured was impatient. Sir Allured wanted him in heritature. Sir Allured 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 tomorrow. End of chapter 67.