The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollope (page 10)

if they’ll turn up trumps. Isn’t that gambling?’

‘I cannot say. I do not know.’ She felt now that her husband had been accused, and that part of that accusation had been levelled at herself. There was something in her manner of saying these few words which the poor complaining woman perceived, feeling immediately that she had been inhospitable and perhaps unjust. She put out her hand softly, touching the other woman’s arm, and looking up into her guest’s face. ‘If this is so, it’s terrible,’ said Emily.

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t speak so free.’

‘Oh, yes;–for your children, and yourself, and your husband.’

‘It’s them,–and him. Of course it’s not your doing, and Mr Lopez, I’m sure, is a very fine gentleman. And if he gets wrong one way, he’ll get himself right in another.’ Upon hearing this Emily shook her head. ‘Your papa is a rich man, and won’t see you and yours come to want. There’s nothing more to come to me or Sexty let it be ever so.’

‘Why does he do it?’

‘Why does who do it?’

‘Your husband. Why don’t you speak to him as you do to me, and tell him to mind only his proper business?’

‘Now you are angry with me.’

‘Angry! No;–indeed I am not angry. Every word that you say is good and true, and just what you ought to say. I am not angry; but I am terrified. I know nothing of my husband’s business. I cannot tell you that you should trust to it. He is very clever, but-‘

‘But what, ma’am?’

‘Perhaps I should say that he is ambitious.’

‘You mean he wants to get rich too quick, ma’am.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Then it’s just the same with Sexty. He’s ambitious too. But what’s the good of being ambitious, Mrs Lopez, if you never know whether you’re on your head or your heels? And what’s the good of being ambitious if you’re to get into the workhouse? I know what that means. There’s one or two of them sort of men gets into Parliament, and has houses as big as the Queen’s palace, while hundreds of them has their wives and children in the gutter. Who ever hears of them? Nobody. It don’t become any man to be ambitious who has got a wife and family. If he’s a bachelor, who, of course, he can go to the Colonies. There’s Mary Jane and the two little ones right down on the sea, with their feet in the water. She we put on our hats, Mrs Lopez, and go and look after them?’ To this proposition Emily assented, and the two ladies went out after the children.

‘Mix yourself another glass,’ said Sexty to his partner.

‘I’d rather not. Don’t ask me again. You know I never drink, and I don’t like being pressed.’

‘By George,–you’re particular.’

‘What’s the use of teasing a fellow to do a thing he doesn’t like?’

‘You won’t mind me having another?’

‘Fifty if you please, so that I’m not forced to join you.’

‘Forced! It’s liberty ‘all here, and you can do as you please. Only when a fellow will take a drop with me, he’s better company.’

‘Then I’m d-d bad company, and you’d better get somebody else to be jolly with. To tell you the truth, Sexty, I suit you better at business than at this sort of thing. I’m like Shylock, you know.’

‘I don’t know about Shylock, but I’m blessed if I think you suit me very well at anything. I’m putting up with a deal of ill- usage, and when I try to be happy with you, you won’t drink, and you tell me about Shylock. He was a Jew, wasn’t he?’

‘That is the general idea.’

‘Then you ain’t much very like him, for they’re the sort of people that always has money about them.’

‘How do you suppose he made his money to begin with? What an ass you are!’

‘That’s true, I am. Ever since I began putting my name on the same bit of paper with yours, I’ve been an ass.’

‘You’ll have to be one a bit longer yet;–unless you mean to throw up everything. At this present moment you are six or seven thousand pounds richer than you were before you first met me.’

‘I wish I could see the money.’

‘That’s like you. What’s the use of money you can see? How are you to make money out of money by looking at it? I like to know that my money is fructifying.’

‘I like to know that it’s all there,–and I did know it before I ever saw you. I’m blessed if I know it now. Go down and join the ladies, will you? You ain’t much of a companion up here.’

Shortly after that Lopez told Mrs Parker that he had already bade adieu to her husband, and then he took his wife to their own lodgings.

CHAPTER 47

AS FOR LOVE!

The time spent by Mrs Lopez at Dovercourt was by no means one of complete happiness. Her husband did not come down very frequently, alleging that his business kept him in town, and that the journey was too long. When he did come he annoyed her either by moroseness or tyranny, or by an affectation of loving good- humour, which was the more disagreeable alternative of the two. She knew that he had not right to be good-humoured, and she was quite able to appreciate the difference between fictitious love and love that was real. He did not while she was at Dovercourt speak to her again directly about her father’s money,–but he gave her to understand that he required from her very close economy. Then again she referred to the brougham which she knew was to be in readiness on her return to London, but he told her that he was the best judge of that. The economy which he demanded was that comfortless heartrending economy which nips the practiser at every turn, but does not betray itself to the world at large. He would have her save out of her washerwoman and linendraper, and yet have a smart gown and go in a brougham. He begrudged her postage stamps, and stopped the subscription at Mudie’s, though he insisted on a front seat in the Dovercourt church, paying half a guinea more for it than he would for a place at the side. And then before their sojourn at the place had come to an end he left her for a while absolutely penniless, so that when the butcher and baker called for their money she could not pay them. That was a dreadful calamity to her, and of which she was hardly able to measure the real worth. It had never happened to her before to have to refuse an application for money that was due. In her father’s house such a thing, as far as she knew, had never happened. She had sometimes heard that Everett was impecunious, but that had simply indicated an additional call upon her father. When the butcher came the second time she wrote to her husband in an agony. Should she write to her father for a supply? She was sure that her father would not leave them in actual want. Then he sent her a cheque, enclosed in an angry letter. Apply to her father! Had she not learnt as yet that she was to lean upon her father any longer, but simply on him? And was she such a fool as to suppose that a tradesman could not wait a month for his money?

During all this time she had no friend,–no person to whom she could speak,–except Mrs Parker. Mrs Parker was very open and very confidential about the business, really knowing very much more about it than did Mrs Lopez. There was some sympathy and confidence between her and her husband, though they had latterly been much lessened by Sexty’s conduct. Mrs Parker talked daily about the business now that her mouth had been opened, and was very clearly of the opinion that it was not a good business. ‘Sexty don’t think it good himself,’ she said.

‘Then why does he go on with it?’

‘Business is a thing, Mrs Lopez, as people can’t drop out of just at a moment. A man gets himself entangled, and must free himself as best he can. I know he’s terribly afeard;–and sometimes he does say such things of your husband!’ Emily shrunk almost into herself as she heard this. ‘You mustn’t be angry, for indeed it’s better you should know all.’

‘I’m not angry; only very unhappy. Surely, Mr Parker could separate himself from Mr Lopez if he pleased?’

‘That’s what I say to him. Give it up, though it be ever so much as you’ve got to lose by him. Give it up, and begin again. You’ve always got your experience, and if it’s only a crust you can earn, that’s sure and safe. But then he declares that he means to pull through, Mrs Lopez. There shouldn’t be no need of pulling through. It should all come just of its own accord,– little and little, but safe.’ Then, when the days of their marine holiday were coming to an end,–in the first week in October,–the day before the return of the Parkers to Ponder’s End, she made a strong appeal to her new friend. ‘You ain’t afraid of him, are you?’

‘Of my husband?’ said Mrs Lopez. ‘I hope not. Why should you ask?’

‘Believe me, a woman should never be afraid of ’em. I never would give in to be bullied and made little of by Sexty. I’d do a’most anything to make him comfortable. I’m soft-hearted. And why not, when he’s the father of my children? But I’m not going not to say a thing if I think it right, because I’m afeard.’

‘I think I could say anything if I thought it right.’

‘Then tell him of me and my babes,–as how I can never have a quiet night while this is going on. It isn’t that they two men are fond of one another. Nothing of the sort. Now you;–I’ve got to be downright fond of you, though, of course, you think me common.’ Mrs Lopez would not contradict her but stooped forward and kissed her cheek. ‘I’m downright fond of you, I am,’ continued Mrs Parker, snuffling and sobbing, ‘but they two men are only together because Mr Lopez wants to gamble, and Parker has got a little money to gamble with.’ This aspect of the thing was so terrible to Mrs Lopez that she could only weep and hid her face. ‘Now, if you would tell him the truth! Tell him what I say, and that I’ve been a-saying it! Tell him it’s for my children I’m a-speaking, who won’t have bread in their very mouths if their father’s squeezed dry like a sponge! Sure, if you’d tell him this, he wouldn’t go on!’ Then she paused a moment, looking up into the other woman’s face. ‘He’d have some bowels of compassion;–wouldn’t he now?’

‘I’ll try,’ said Mrs Lopez.

‘I know you’re good and kind-hearted, my dear. I saw it in your eyes from the very first. But then men, when they get on at money-making,–or money-losing, which makes ’em worse,–are like tigers clawing one another. They don’t care how many they kills, so that they has at least bit for themselves. There ain’t no fear of God init, nor yet no mercy, nor ere a morsel of heart. It ain’t what I call manly,–not that longing after other folk’s money. When it’s come by hard work, as I tell Sexty,–by the very sweat of his brow,–oh,–it’s sweet as sweet. When he’d tell me that he’d made his three pound, or his five pound, or, perhaps, his ten in a day, and’d calculate it up, how much it’d come to if he did that every day, and where we could go to, and what we could do for the children, I loved to hear him talk about money. But now–! why, it’s altered the looks of the man altogether. It’s just as though he was a-thirsting for blood.’

Thirsting for blood! Yes, indeed. It was the very idea that had occurred to Mrs Lopez herself when her husband bade her to ‘get round her father’. No;–it certainly was not manly. There certainly was neither the fear of God in it, nor mercy. Yes;– she would try. But as for bowels of compassion in Ferdinand Lopez–; she, the young wife, had already seen enough of her husband to think that he was not to be moved by any prayers on that side. Then the two women bade each other farewell. ‘Parker has been talking of my going to Manchester Square,’ said Mrs Parker, ‘but I shan’t. What’d I be in Manchester Square? And, besides, there’d better be an end of it. Mr Lopez’d turn Sexty and me out of the house at a moment’s notice if it wasn’t for the money.’

‘It’s papa’s house,’ said Mrs Lopez, not, however, meaning to make an attack upon her husband.

‘I suppose so, but I shan’t come to trouble no one, and we live ever so far away, at Ponder’s End,–out or your line altogether, Mrs Lopez. But I’ve taken to you and will never think ill of you in any way–and do as you said you would.’

‘I will try,’ said Mrs Lopez.

In the meantime Lopez received from Mr Wharton an answer to his letter about the missing caravels, which did not please him. Here is the letter:

MY DEAR LOPEZ,
I cannot say that your statement is satisfactory, nor can I reconcile it to your assurance to me that you have made a trade income for some years past of 2,000 pounds a year. I do not know much of business, but I cannot imagine such a result from such a condition of things as you describe. Have you any books; and if so, will you allow them to be inspected by any accountant that I may name?

You say that a sum of 20,000 pounds would suit your business better now than when I am dead. Very likely. But with such an account of the business as that you have given me, I do not know that I feel disposed to confide my savings of my life to assist so very doubtful an enterprise. Of course whatever I may do to your advantage will be done for the sake of Emily and her children, should she have any. As far I can see at present, I shall best do my duty to her, by leaving what I may have to leave to her, to trustees, for her benefit and that of her children.
Yours truly,
A. WHARTON

This, of course, did not tend to mollify the spirit of the man to whom it was written, or to make him gracious towards his wife. He received the letter three weeks before the lodgings at Dovercourt were given up,–but during these three weeks he was very little at the place, and when there did not mention the letter. On these occasions he said nothing about business, but satisfied himself with giving strict injunctions as to economy. Then he took her back to town on the day after her promise to Mrs Parker that she would ‘try’. Mrs Parker had told her that no woman ought to be afraid to speak to her husband, and, if necessary, to speak roundly on such subjects. Mrs Parker was certainly not a highly educated lady, but she had impressed Emily with an admiration for her practical good sense and proper feeling. The lady who was a lady had begun to feel that in the troubles of her life she might find a much less satisfactory companion than the lady who was not a lady. She would do as Mrs Parker had told her. She would not be afraid. Of course it was right that she should speak on such a matter. She knew herself to be an obedient wife. She had borne all her unexpected sorrows without a complaint, with a resolve that she would bear all for his sake,–not because she loved him, but because she had made herself his wife. Into whatever calamities he might fall, she would share them. Though he should bring her utterly into the dirt, she would remain in that dirt with him. It seemed probable to her that it might be so;–that they might have to go into the dirt;–and if it were so, she would still be true to him. She had chosen to marry him, and she would be a true wife. But, as such, she would not be afraid of him. Mrs Parker had told her that ‘a woman should never be afraid of ’em’, and she believed in Mrs Parker. In this case, too, it was clearly her duty to speak, –for the injury being done was terrible, and might too probably become tragical. How could she endure to think of that woman and her children, should she come to know that the husband of the woman and the father of the children had been ruined by her husband?

Yes;–she would speak to him. But she did fear. It is all very well for a woman to tell herself that she will encounter some anticipated difficulty without fear,–or for a man either. The fear cannot be overcome by will. The thing, however, may be done, whether it be leading a forlorn hope, or speaking to an angry husband,–in spite of fear. She would do it; but when the moment for doing it came, her very heart trembled within her. He had been so masterful with her, so persistent in repudiating her interference, so exacting in his demands for obedience, so capable of making her miserable by his moroseness when she failed to comply with his wishes, that she could not go to her task without fear. But she did feel that she ought not to be afraid, or that her fears, at any rate, should not be allowed to restrain her. A wife, she knew, should be prepared to yield, but yet was entitled to be her husband’s counsellor. And it was now the case that in this matter she was conversant with circumstances which were unknown to her husband. It was to her that Mrs Parker’s appeal had been made, and with a direct request from the poor woman that it should be repeated to her husband’s partner.

She found that she could not do it on the journey home from Dovercourt, nor yet on that evening. Mrs Dick Roby, who had come back from sojourn at Boulogne, was with them in the Square, and brought her dear friend Mrs Leslie with her, and also Lady Eustace. The reader may remember that Mr Wharton had met these ladies at Mrs Dick’s house some months before his daughter’s marriage, but he certainly had never asked them into his own. On this occasion Emily had given them no invitation, but had been told by her husband that her aunt would probably bring them with her. ‘Mrs Leslie and Lady Eustace!’ she exclaimed with a little shudder. ‘I suppose your aunt may bring a couple of friends with her to see you, though it is your father’s house?’ he had replied. She had said no more, not daring to have a fight on that subject at present, while the other matter was pressing on her mind. The evening passed away pleasantly enough, she thought, to all except herself. Mrs Leslie and Lady Eustace had talked a great deal, and her husband had borne himself quite as though he had been a wealthy man and the owner of the house in Manchester Square. In the course of the evening Dick Roby came in and Major Pountney, who since the late affairs at Silverbridge had become intimate with Lopez. So that there was quite a party; and Emily was astonished to hear her husband declare that he was only watching the opportunity of another vacancy in order that he might get into the House, and expose the miserable duplicity of the Duke of Omnium. And yet this man, within the last month, had taken away her subscription at Mudie’s, and told her that she shouldn’t wear things that wanted washing! But he was able to say so ever many pretty little things to Lady Eustace, and had given a new fan to Mrs Dick, and talked of taking a box for Mrs Leslie at The Gaiety.

But on the next morning before breakfast she began. ‘Ferdinand,’ she said, ‘while I was at Dovercourt I saw a good deal of Mrs Parker.’

‘I could not help that. Or rather you might have helped it if you pleased. It was necessary that you should meet, but I didn’t tell you that you were to see a great deal of her.’

‘I liked her very much.’

‘Then I must say you’ve got a very odd taste. Did you like him?’

‘No. I did not see very much of him, and I think that the manners of women are less objectionable than those of men. But I want to tell you what passed between her and me.’

‘If it is about her husband’s business she ought to have held her tongue, and you had better hold yours now.’

This was not a happy beginning, but still she was determined to go on. ‘It was I think more about your business than his.’

‘Then it was infernal impudence on her part, and you should not have listened to her for a moment.’

‘You do not want to ruin her and her children?’

‘What have I to do with her and her children? I did not marry her, and I am not their father. He has got to look to that.’

‘She thinks you are enticing him into risks which he cannot afford.’

‘Am I doing anything for him that I ain’t doing for myself! If there is money made, will not he share it? If money has to be lost, of course he must do the same.’ Lopez stating his case omitted to say that whatever capital was now being used belonged to his partner. ‘But women when they get together talk all manner of nonsense. Is it likely that I shall alter my course of action because you tell me that she tells you that he tells her that he is losing money? He is a half-hearted fellow who quails at every turn against him. And when he is crying drunk I dare say he makes a poor mouth to her.’

‘I think, Ferdinand, it is more than that. She says that–‘

‘To tell the truth, Emily, I don’t give a d–what she says. Now give me some tea.’

The roughness of this absolutely quelled her. It was not now that she was afraid of him, but that she was knocked down as though by a blow. She had been altogether so unused to such language that she could not get on with her matter in hand, letting the bad word pass by her as an unmeaning expletive. She wearily poured out the cup of tea and sat herself down silent. The man was too strong for her, and would be so always. She told herself at this moment that language such as that must always absolutely silence her. Then, within a few minutes, he desired her, quite cheerfully, to ask her uncle and aunt to dinner the day but one following, and also to ask Lady Eustace and Mrs Leslie. ‘I will pick up a couple of men which will make us all right,’ he said.

This was in every way horrible to her. Her father had been back in town, had not been very well, and had been recommended to return to the country. He had consequently removed himself,– not to Hertfordshire,–but to Brighton, and was now living at an hotel, almost within an hour of London. Had he been at home he certainly would not have invited Mrs Leslie and Lady Eustace to his house. He had often expressed a feeling of dislike to the former lady in the hearing of his son-in-law, and had ridiculed his sister-in-law for allowing herself to be acquainted with Lady Eustace, whose name had at one time been very common in the mouths of people. Emily also felt that she was hardly entitled to give a dinner party in his house in his absence. And, after all that she had lately heard about her husband’s poverty, she could not understand how he should wish to incur the expense. ‘You would not ask Mrs Leslie here!’ she said.

‘Why should we not ask Mrs Leslie?’

‘Papa dislikes her.’

‘But “papa”, as you call him, isn’t going to meet her.’

‘He has said that he doesn’t know what day he may be home. And he does more than dislike her. He disapproves of her.’

‘Nonsense! She is your aunt’s friend. Because your father once heard some cock-and-bull story about her, and because he has always taken it upon himself to criticize your aunt’s friends, I am not to be civil to a person I like.’

‘But, Ferdinand, I do not like her myself. She never was in this house till that other night.’

‘Look here, my dear. Lady Eustace can be useful to me, and I cannot ask Lady Eustace without asking her friend. You do as I bid you,–or else I shall do it myself.’

She paused for a moment, and then she positively refused. ‘I cannot bring myself to ask Mrs Leslie to dine in this house. If she comes to dine with you, of course I shall sit at the table, but she will be sure to see that she is not welcome.’

‘It seems to me that you are determined to go against me in everything I propose.’

‘I don’t think you would say that if you knew how miserable yo made me.’

‘I tell you that that other woman can be very useful to me.’

‘In what way useful?’

‘Are you jealous, my dear?’

‘Certainly not of Lady Eustace,–nor of any woman. But it seems so odd that such a person’s services should be required.’

‘Will you do as I tell you, and ask them? You can go round and tell your aunt about it. She knows that I mean to ask them. Lady Eustace is a very rich woman, and is disposed to do a little in commerce. Now do you understand?’

‘Not in the least,’ said Emily.

‘Why shouldn’t a woman who has money buy coffee as well as buy shares?’

‘Does she buy shares?’

‘By George, Emily, I think you are a fool.’

‘I dare say I am, Ferdinand. I do not in the least know what it all means. But I do know this, that you ought not, in papa’s absence, to ask people to dine here whom he particularly dislikes, and whom he would not wish to have in the house.’

‘You think I am to be governed by you in such a matter as that?’

‘I don’t want to govern you.’

‘You think that a wife should dictate to a husband as to the way in which he is to do his work, and the partners he may be allowed to have in his business, and the persons whom he may ask to dinner! Because you have been dictating to me on all these matters. Now, look here, my dear. As to my business, you had better never speak to me about it any more. I have endeavoured to take you into my confidence and to get you to act with me, but you have declined that, and have preferred to stick to your father. As to my partners, whether I may choose to have Sexty Parker or Lady Eustace, I am a better judge thanyou. And as to asking Mrs Leslie and Lady Eustace or any other persons to dinner, as I am obliged to make even the recreation of life subservient to work, I must claim permission to have my own way.’ She had listened, but when he paused she made no reply. ‘Do you mean to do as I bid and ask these ladies?’

‘I cannot do that. I know that it ought not to be done. This is papa’s house, and we are living here as his guests.’

‘D–your papa!’ he said as he burst out of the room. After a quarter of an hour he put his head into the room and saw her sitting, like a statue, exactly where he had left her. ‘I have written the notes to Lady Eustace and to Mrs Leslie,’ he said. ‘You can’t think it any sin at any rate to ask your aunt.’

‘I will see my aunt,’ she said.

‘And remember I am not going to be your father’s guest as you call it. I mean to pay for the dinner myself, and to send in my own wines. Your father shall have nothing to complain of on that head.’

‘Could you not ask them to Richmond, or to some hotel?’ she said.

‘What, in October! If you think I am going to live in a house in which I can’t invite a friend to dinner, you are mistaken.’ And with that he took his departure.

The whole thing had now become so horrible to her that she felt unable any longer to hold up her head. It seemed to her to be sacrilege that these women should come and sit in her father’s room, but when she spoke of her father her husband had cursed him with scorn! Lopez was going to send food and wine into the house, which would be gall and wormwood to her father. At one time she thought she would at once write to her father and tell him of it all,–or perhaps telegraph to him; but she could not do so without letting her husband know what she had done, and then he would have justice on his side in calling her disobedient. Were she to do that, then it would indeed be necessary that she should take part against her husband.

She had brought all this misery on herself and on her father because she had been obstinate in thinking she could with certainty read a lover’s character. As for love,–that of course had died away in her heart,–imperceptibly, though, alas, so quickly! It was impossible that she could continue to love a man who from day to day was teaching her mean lessons, and who was ever doing mean things, the meanness of which was so little apparent to himself that he did not scruple to divulge them to her. How could she love a man who would make no sacrifice either to her comfort or her pride, or her conscience? But still she might obey him,–if she could feel sure that obedience to him was a duty. Could it be a duty to sin against her father’s wishes, and to assist in profaning his house and abusing his hospitality after this fashion? Then her mind again went back to the troubles of Mrs Parker, and her absolute inefficiency in that matter. It seemed to her that she had given herself over body and soul and mind to some evil genius, and that there was no escape.

‘Of course we’ll come,’ said Mrs Roby had said to her when she went round the corner into Berkeley Street early in the day. ‘Lopez spoke to me about it before.’

‘What will papa say about it, Aunt Harriet?’

‘I suppose he and Lopez understand each other.’

‘I do not think papa will understand this.’

‘I am sure Mr Wharton would not lend his house to his son-in-law and then object to the man he had lent it to asking a friend to dine with him. And I am sure that Mr Lopez would not consent to occupy a house on those terms. If you don’t like it, of course we won’t come.’

‘Pray do not say that. As these other women are to come, pray do not desert me. But I cannot say I think it is right.’ Mrs Dick, however, only laughed at her scruples.

In the course of the evening Emily got letters addressed to herself, from Lady Eustace and Mrs Leslie, informing her that they would have very much pleasure in dining with her on the day named. And Lady Eustace went on to say, with much pleasantry, that she always regarded little parties, got up without any ceremony, as being the pleasantest, and that she should come on this occasion without any ceremonial observance. Then Emily was aware that her husband had not only written the notes in her name, but had put into her mouth some studied apology as to the shortness of the invitation. Well! She was the man’s wife, and she supposed that he was entitled to put any words that he please into her mouth.

CHAPTER 48

‘HAS HE ILL-TREATED YOU?’

Lopez relieved his wife from all care as to provision for his guests. ‘I’ve been to a shop in Wigmore Street,’ he said, ‘and everything will be done. They’ll send in a cook to make the things hot, and your father won’t have to pay even for a crust of bread.’

‘Papa doesn’t mind paying for anything,’ she said in her indignation.

‘It is all very pretty for you to say so, but my experience of him goes just the other way. At any rate there will be nothing to be paid for. Stewam and Sugarscraps will send in everything, if you’ll only tell the old fogies downstairs not to interfere.’ Then she made a little request. Might she ask Everett who was now in town? ‘I’ve already got Major Pountney and Captain Gunner,’ he said. She pleaded that one more would make no difference. ‘But that’s just what one more always does. It destroys everything, and turns a pretty little dinner into an awkward feed. We won’t have him this time. Pountney’ll take you, and I’ll take her ladyship. Dick will take Mrs Leslie, and Gunner will have Aunt Harriet. Dick will sit opposite to me, and the four ladies will sit at the four corners. We shall be very pleasant, but one more would spoil us.’

She did speak to the ‘old fogies’ downstairs,–the housekeeper, who had lived with her father since she was a child, and the butler, who had been there still longer, and the cook, who, having been in her place only three years, resigned impetuously within half an hour after the advent of Mr Sugarscaps’ head man. The ‘fogies’ were indignant. The butler expressed his intention of locking himself up in his own peculiar pantry, and the housekeeper took it upon herself to tell her young mistress that ‘Master wouldn’t like it’. Since she had known Mr Wharton such a thing as cooked food being sent into the house from a shop had never been so much as heard of. Emily, who had hitherto been regarded in the house as a rather strong-minded young woman, could only break down and weep. Why, oh why, had she consented to bring herself and her misery into her father’s house? She could at any rate have prevented that by explaining to her father the unfitness of such an arrangement.

The ‘party’ came. There was Major Pountney, very fine, rather loud, very intimate with the host, whom on one occasion had called ‘Ferdy, my boy’, and very full of abuse of the Duke and Duchess of Omnium. ‘And yet she was a good creature when I knew her’, said Lady Eustace. Pountney suggested that the Duchess had not then taken up politics. ‘I’ve got out of her way,’ said Lady Eustace, ‘since she did that.’ And there was Captain Gunner, who defended the Duchess, but who acknowledged that the Duke was the ‘most consumedly stuck up coxcomb’ then existing. ‘And the most dishonest’, said Lopez, who had told his new friends nothing about the repayment of the election expenses. And Dick was there. He liked these little parties, in which a good deal of wine could be drunk, and at which ladies were not supposed to be very stiff. The Major and the Captain, and Mrs Leslie and Lady Eustace, were such people as he liked,–all within the pale, but having a piquant relish of fastness and impropriety. Dick was wont to declare that he hated the world in buckram. Aunt Harriet was triumphant in a manner which disgusted Emily, and which she thought to be most disrespectful to her father;–but in truth Aunt Harriett did not now care very much for Mr Wharton, preferring the friendship of Mr Wharton’s son-in-law. Mrs Leslie came in gorgeous clothes, which, as she was known to be very poor, and to have attached herself lately with almost more than feminine affection to Lady Eustace, were at any rate open to suspicious cavil. In former days Mrs Leslie had taken upon herself to say bitter things about Mr Lopez, which Emily could now have repeated, to that lady’s discomfiture, had such a mode of revenge suited her disposition. With Mrs Leslie there was Lady Eustace, pretty as ever, and sharp and witty, with the old passion for some excitement, the old proneness to pretend to trust everybody, and the old capacity for trusting nobody. Ferdinand Lopez had lately been at her feet, and had fired her imagination with stories of the grand things to be done in trade. Ladies do it? Yes; why not women as well as men? Anyone might do it who had money in his pocket and experience to tell him or to tell her, what to buy and what to sell. And the experience, luckily, might be vicarious. At the present moment half the jewels worn in London were,–if Ferdinand Lopez knew anything about it,–bought from the proceeds of such commerce. Of course there were misfortunes. But these came from a want of that experience which Ferdinand Lopez possessed, and which he was quite willing to place at the service of one whom he admired so thoroughly as he did Lady Eustace. Lady Eustace had been charmed, had seen her way into a new and most delightful life,– but had not yet put any of her money into the hands of Ferdinand Lopez.

I cannot say that the dinner was good. It may be a doubt whether such tradesmen as Messrs Stewam and Sugarscraps do ever produce good food;–or whether, with all the will in the world to do so, such a result is within their power. It is certain, I think, that the humblest mutton chop is better eating than any ‘Supreme of chicken after martial manner’,–as I have seen the dish named in a French bill of fare, translated by a French pastrycook for the benefit of his English customers,–when sent in from Messrs Stewam and Sugarscraps even with their best exertions. Nor can it be said that the wine was good, though Mr Sugarscraps, when he contracted for the whole entertainment, was eager in his assurance that he procured the very best that London could produce. But the outside look of the things was handsome, and there were many dishes, and enough servants to hand them, and the wines, if not good, were various. Probably Pountney and Gunner did not know good wines. Roby did, but was contented on this occasion to drink them bad. And everything went pleasantly, with perhaps a little too much noise;–everything except the hostess, who was allowed by general consent to be sad and silent,–till there came a loud double-rap at the door.

‘There’s papa,’ said Emily, jumping up from her seat.

Mrs Dick looked at Lopez, and saw at a glance for a moment his courage had failed him. But he recovered himself quickly. ‘Hadn’t you better keep your seat, my dear?’ he said to his wife. ‘The servants will attend to Mr Wharton, and I will go to him presently.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Emily, who by this time was almost at the door.

‘You didn’t expect him,–did you?’ asked Dick Roby.

‘Nobody knew when he was coming. I think he told Emily that he might be here any day.’

‘He’s the most uncertain man alive,’ said Mrs Dick, who was a good deal scared by the arrival, though determined to hold up her head and exhibit no fear.

‘I suppose the old gentleman will come and have some dinner,’ whispered Captain Gunner to his neighbour Mrs Leslie.

‘Not if he knows I’m here,’ replied Mrs Leslie, tittering. ‘He thinks that I am,–oh, something a great deal worse than I can tell you.’

‘Is he given to be cross?’ asked Lady Eustace, also affecting to whisper.

‘Never saw him in my life,’ answered the major, ‘but I shouldn’t wonder if he was. Old gentlemen generally are cross. Gout, and that kind of thing, you know.’

For a minute or two the servants stopped in their ministrations, and things were very uncomfortable; but Lopez, as soon as he had recovered himself, directed Mr Sugarscraps’ men to proceed with the banquet. ‘We can eat our dinner, I suppose, though my father-in-law has come back,’ he said. ‘I wish my wife was not so fussy, though that is the kind of thing, Lady Eustace, that one must expect from young wives.’ The banquet did go on, but the feeling was general that a misfortune had come upon them, and that something dreadful might possibly happen.

Emily, when she rushed out, met her father in the hall, and ran into his arms. ‘Oh, papa!’ she exclaimed.

‘What’s all this about?’ he asked, and as he spoke he passed on through the hall to his own room at the back of the house. There were of course many evidences on all sides of the party,–the strange servants, the dishes going in and out, the clatter of glasses, and the smell of viands. ‘You’ve got a dinner party,’ he said. ‘Had you not better go back to your friends?’

‘No, papa.’

‘What is the matter, Emily? You are unhappy.’

‘Oh, so unhappy?’

‘What is it all about? Who are they? Whose doing is it,–yours or his? What makes you unhappy?’

He was now seated in his arm-chair, and she threw herself on her knees at his feet. ‘He would have them. You mustn’t be angry with me. You won’t be angry with me;–will you?’

He put his hand upon her head, and stroked her hair. ‘Why should I be angry with you because your husband has asked friends to dinner?’ She was so unlike her usual self that he knew not what to make of it. It had not been her nature to kneel and ask for pardon, or to be timid and submissive. ‘What is it, Emily, that makes you like this?’

‘He shouldn’t have had the people.’

‘Well;–granted. But it does not signify much. Is your Aunt Harriet here?’

‘Yes.’

‘It can’t be very bad, then.’

‘Mrs Leslie is here, and Lady Eustace,–and two men I don’t like.’

‘Is Everett here?’

‘No;–he wouldn’t have Everett.’

‘Oughtn’t you go to them?’

‘Don’t make me go. I should only cry. I have been crying all day, and the whole of yesterday.’ Then she buried her face upon his knees, and sobbed as though she would break her heart.

He couldn’t at all understand it. Though he distrusted his son- in-law, and certainly did not love him, he had not as yet learned to hold him in aversion. When the connection was once made he had determined to make the best of it, and had declared to himself that as far as manners went the man was well enough. He had not as yet seen the inside of the man, as it had been the sad fate of the poor wife to see him. It had never occurred to him that his daughter’s love had failed her, or that she could already be repenting what she had done. And now, when she was weeping at his feet and deploring the sin of the dinner party,– which, after all, was a trifling sin,–he could not comprehend the feelings which were actuating her. ‘I suppose your Aunt Harriet made up the party,’ he said.

‘He did it.’

‘Your husband?’

‘Yes;–he did it. He wrote to the women in my name when I refused.’ Then Mr Wharton began to perceive that there had been a quarrel. ‘I told him Mrs Leslie oughtn’t to come here.’

‘I don’t love Mrs Leslie,–nor, for the matter of that,–Lady Eustace. But they won’t hurt the house, my dear.’

‘And he has had the dinner sent in from a shop.’

‘Why couldn’t he let Mrs Williams do it?’ As he said this, the tone of his voice for the first time became angry.

‘Cook has gone away. She wouldn’t stand it. And Mrs Williams is very angry. And Barker wouldn’t wait at table.’

‘What’s the meaning of it all?’

‘He would have it so. Oh, papa, you don’t know what I’ve undergone. I wish,–I wish we had not come here. It would have been better anywhere else.’

‘What would have been better, dear?’

‘Everything. Whether we lived or died, it would have been better. Why should I bring my misery to you? Oh, papa, you do not know,–you can never know.’

‘But I must know. Is there more than this dinner to disturb you?’

Oh, yes;–more than that. Only I couldn’t bear that it should be done in your house.’

‘Has he–ill-treated you?’

Then she got up, and stood before him. ‘I do not mean to complain. I should have said nothing only that you have found us in this way. For myself I will bear it all, whatever it may be. But, papa, I want you to tell him that we must leave this house.’

‘He has got no other home for you.’

‘He must find one. I will go anywhere. I don’t care where it is. But I won’t stay here. I have done it myself, but I won’t bring it upon you. I could bear it all if I thought that you would never see me again.’

‘Emily!’

‘Yes;–if you would never see me again. I know it all, and that would be best.’ She was now walking about the room. ‘Why should you see it all?’

‘See what, my love?’

‘See his ruin, and my unhappiness, and my baby. Oh–oh–oh!’

‘I think so very differently, Emily, that under no circumstances will I have you taken to another home. I cannot understand much of all this as yet, but I suppose that I shall come to see it. If Lopez be, as you say, ruined, it is well that I have still enough for us to live on. This is a bad time just now to talk about your husband’s affairs.’

‘I did not mean to talk about them, papa.’

‘What would you like best to do now,–now at once. Can you go down again to your husband’s friends?’

‘No;–no;–no.’

‘As for the dinner, never mind about that. I can’t blame him for making use of my house in my absence, as far as that goes,– though I wish he could have contented himself with such a dinner as my servants could have prepared for him. I will have some tea here.’

‘Let me stay with you, papa, and make it for you.’

‘Very well, dear. I do not mean to be ashamed to enter my own dining-room. I shall, therefore, go in and make your apologies.’ Thereupon Mr Wharton walked slowly forth, and marched into the dining-room.

‘Oh, Mr Wharton,’ said Mrs Dick, ‘we didn’t expect you.’

‘Have you dined yet, sir?’ asked Lopez.

‘I have dined early,’ said Mr Wharton. ‘I should not now have come in to disturb you, but that I have found Mrs Lopez unwell, and she has begged me to ask you to excuse her.’

‘I will go to her,’ said Lopez, rising.

‘It is not necessary,’ said Wharton. ‘She is not ill, but hardly able to take her place at table.’ Then Mrs Dick proposed to go to her dear niece, but Mr Wharton would not allow it, and left the room, having succeeded in persuading them to go on with their dinner. Lopez certainly was not happy during the evening, but he was strong enough to hide his misgivings, and to do his duty as host with seeming cheerfulness.

CHAPTER 49

WHERE IS GUATEMALA?

Though his daughter’s words to him had been very wild they did almost more to convince Mr Wharton that he should not give his money to his son-in-law than even the letters which had passed between them. To Emily herself he spoke very little as to what had occurred that evening. ‘Papa,’ she said, ‘do not ask me anything more about it. I was very miserable,–because of the dinner.’ Nor did he at that time ask her any questions, contenting himself with assuring her that, at any rate at present, and till after her baby should have been born, she must remain at Manchester Square. ‘He won’t hurt me,’ said Mr Wharton, and than added with a smile, ‘He won’t want to have any more dinner parties while I am here.’

Nor did he make any complaint to Lopez as to what had been done, or even allude to the dinner. But when he had been back about a week he announced to his son-in-law his final determination as to money. ‘I had better tell you, Lopez, what I mean to do, so that you may not be left in doubt. I shall not entrust any further sum of money into your hands on behalf of Emily.’

‘You can do as you please, sir,–of course.’

‘Just so. You have had what to me is a very considerable sum,– though I fear that it did not go for much in your large concern.’

‘It was not very much, Mr Wharton.’

‘I dare say not. Opinions on such a matter differ, you know. At any rate there will be no more. At present I wish Emily to live here, and you, of course, are welcome here also. If things are not going well with you, this will, at any rate, relieve you from immediate expense.

‘Mine are more minute. The necessities of my life have caused me to think of these little things. When I am dead there will be provision for Emily made by my will;–the income going to trustees for her benefit, and the capital to her children after her death. I thought it only fair to you that this should be explained.’

‘And you will do nothing for me?’

‘Nothing;–if that is nothing. I should have thought that your present maintenance and the future support of your wife and children would have been regarded as something.’

‘It is nothing;–nothing!’

‘Then let it be nothing. Good morning.’

Two days after that Lopez recurred to the subject. ‘You were very explicit with me the other day, sir.’

‘I meant to be so.’

‘And I will be equally so to you now. Both I and your daughter are absolutely ruined unless you reconsider your purpose.’

‘If you mean money by reconsideration;–present money to be given to you,–I certainly shall not reconsider it. You may take my solemn assurance that I will give you nothing that can be of any service to you in trade.’

Then, sir,–I must tell you my purpose, and give you my assurance, which is equally solemn. Under those circumstances I must leave England, and try my fortune in Central America. There is an opening for me at Guatemala, though not a very hopeful one.’

‘Guatemala!’

‘Yes;–friends of mine have a connection there. I have not broken it to Emily yet, but under these circumstances she will have to go.’

‘You will not take her to Guatemala!’

‘Not take my wife, sir? Indeed I shall. Do you suppose that I would go away and leave my wife a pensioner on your bounty? Do you think that she would wish to desert her husband? I don’t think you know your daughter.’

‘I wish you had never known her.’

‘That is neither here not there, sir. If I cannot succeed in this country I must go elsewhere. As I have told you before 20,000 pounds at the present moment would enable me to surmount all my difficulties, and make me a very wealthy man. But unless I can command some such sum by Christmas everything here must be sacrificed.’

‘Never in my life did I hear so base a proposition,’ said Mr Wharton.

‘Why is it base? I can only tell you the truth.’

‘So be it. You will find that I have meant what I said.’

‘So do I, Mr Wharton.’

‘As to my daughter, she must, of course, do as she thinks fit.’

‘She must do as I think fit, Mr Wharton.’

‘I will not argue with you. Alas, alas, poor girl.’

‘Poor girl indeed! She is likely to be a poor girl if she is treated in this way by her father. As I understand that you intend to use, or to try to use, authority over her, I shall take steps for removing her at once from your house.’ And so the interview was ended.

Lopez had thought the matter over, and had determined to ‘brazen it out’, as he himself called it. Nothing further was, he thought, to be got by civility and obedience. Now he must use his power. His idea of going to Guatemala was not an invention of the moment, nor was it devoid of a certain basis of truth. Such a suggestion had been made to him some time since by Mr Mills Happerton. There were mines in Guatemala which wanted, or at some future date, might want, a resident director. The proposition had been made to Lopez before his marriage, and Mr Happerton probably had now forgotten all about it;–but the thing was of service now. He broke the matter very suddenly to his wife. ‘Has your father been speaking to you of my plans?’

‘Not lately;–not that I remember.’

‘He could not speak of them without your remembering, I should think. Has he told you that I am going to Guatemala?’

‘Guatemala! Where is Guatemala, Ferdinand?’

‘You can answer my question though your geography is deficient.’

‘He has said nothing about your going anywhere.’

‘You will have to go,–as soon after Christmas as you may be fit.’

‘But where is Guatemala;–and for how long, Ferdinand?’

‘Guatemala is in Central America, and we shall probably settle there for the rest of our lives. I have got nothing to live on here.’

During the next two months this plan of seeking a distant home and a strange country was constantly spoken of in Manchester Square, and did receive corroboration from Mr Happerton himself. Lopez renewed his application and received a letter saying that the thing might probably be arranged if he were in earnest. ‘I am quite earnest,’ Lopez said as he showed the letter to Mr Wharton. ‘I suppose Emily will be able to start two months after her confinement. They tell me babies do very well at sea.’

During this time, in spite of his threat, he continued to live with Mr Wharton in Manchester Square, and went every day into the city,–whether to make arrangements and receive instructions as to Guatemala, or to carry on his old business, neither Emily nor her father knew. He never at this time spoke about his affairs to either of them, but daily referred to her future expatriation as a thing that was certain. At last there came up the actual question,–whether she were to go or not. Her father told her that though she was doubtless bound by law to obey her husband, in such a matter as this she might defy the law. ‘I do not think that he can actually force you on board the ship,’ her father said.

‘But if he tells me I must go?’

‘Stay with me,’ said the father. ‘Stay here with your baby. I’ll fight it out for you. I’ll so manage that you shall have all the world on your side.’

Emily at the moment came to no decision, but on the following day she discussed the matter with Lopez himself. ‘Of course you will go with me,’ he said, when she asked the question.

‘You mean that I must, whether I wish to go or not.’

‘Certainly you must. Good G-! Where is a wife’s place? Am I to go without my child, and without you, while you are enjoying all the comforts of your father’s wealth at home? That is not my idea of life.’

‘Ferdinand, I have been thinking about it very much. I must beg you to allow me to remain. I ask it of you as if I were asking my life.’

‘Your father has put you up to this.’

‘No;–not to this.’

‘To what then.’

‘My father thinks I should refuse to go.’

‘He does, does he?’

‘But I shall not refuse. I shall go if you insist upon it. There shall be no contest between us about that.’

‘Well, I should hope not.’

‘But I do implore you to spare me.’

‘That is very selfish, Emily.’

‘Yes,’–she said, ‘yes, I cannot contradict that. But so is the man selfish who prays the judge to spare his life.’

‘But you do not think of me. I must go.’

‘I shall not make you happier, Ferdinand.’

‘Do you think that it is a fine thing for a man to live in such a country as that all alone?’

‘I think it would be better so than with a wife he does not– love.’

‘Who says I do not love you?’

‘Or with one who does–not–love him.’ This she said very slowly, very softly, but looking up into his eyes as she said it.

‘Do you tell me that to my face?’

‘Yes;–what good can I do now by lying? You have not been to me as I thought you would be.’

‘And, because you have built some castle in the air that has fallen to pieces, you tell your husband to his face that you do not love him, and that you prefer not to live with him. Is that your idea of duty?’

‘Why have you been so cruel?’

‘Cruel! What have I done? Tell me what cruelty. Have I beat you? Have you been starved? Have I not asked and implored your assistance,–only to be refused? The fact is that your father and you have found out that I am not a rich man, and you want to be rid of me. Is that true or false?’

‘It is not true that I want to be rid of you because you are poor.’

‘I do not mean to be rid of you. You will have to settle down and do your work as my wife in whatever place it may suit me to live. Your father is a rich man, but you shall not have the advantage of his wealth unless it comes to you, as it ought to come, through my hands. If your father would give me the fortune which ought to be yours there need be no going abroad. He cannot bear to part with his money, and therefore we must go. Now you know all about it.’ She was then turning to leave him, when he asked her a direct question. ‘Am I to understand that you intend to resist my right to take you with me?’

‘If you bid me go,–I shall go.’

‘It will be better, as you will save both trouble and expense.’

Of course she told her father what had taken place; but he could only shake his head, and groaning over his misery in his chambers. He had explained to her what he was willing to do on her behalf, but she declined his aid. He could not tell her that she was wrong. She was the man’s wife, and out of that terrible destiny she could not now escape. The only question with him was whether it would not be best to buy the man,–give him a some of money to go, and to go alone. Could he have been quit of the man even for 20,000 pounds, he would willingly have paid the money. But the man would either not go, or would come back as soon as he got the money. His own life, as he passed it now, with this man in the house with him, was horrible to him. For Lopez, though he had more than once threatened that he would carry his wife to another home, had taken no steps towards getting that other house ready for her.

During all this time Mr Wharton had not seen his son. Everett had gone abroad just as his father returned to London from Brighton, and was still on the continent. He received his allowance punctually, and that was the only intercourse which took place between them. But Emily had written to him, not telling him much of her troubles,–only saying that she believed her husband would take her to Central America early in the spring, and begging him to come home before she went.

Just before Christmas her baby was born, but the poor child did not live a couple of days. She herself at the time was so worn with care, so thin and wan and wretched, that looking in the glass she hardly knew her own face. ‘Ferdinand,’ she said to him, ‘I know he will not live. The Doctor says so.’

‘Noting thrives that I have to do with,’ he answered gloomily.

‘Will you not look at him?’

‘Well; yes. I have looked at him, have I not? I wish to God that where he is going I could go with him.’

‘I wish I was;–I wish I was going,’ said the poor mother. Then the father went out, and before he had returned to the house the child was dead. ‘Oh, Ferdinand, speak one kind word to me now,’ she said.

‘What kind word can I speak when you have told me that you do not love me. Do you think that I can forget that because, because he has gone?’

‘A woman’s love may always be won back by kindness.’

‘Psha! How am I to kiss and make pretty speeches with my mind harassed as it is now?’ But he did touch her brow with his lips before he went away.

The infant was buried, and then there was not much show of mourning in the house. The poor mother would sit gloomily alone day after day, telling herself that it was perhaps better that she should have been robbed of her treasure than have gone forth with him into the wide, unknown, harsh world with such a father as she had given him. Then she would look at all the preparations she had made,–the happy work of her fingers when her thoughts of their future use were her sweetest consolation,– and weep till she would herself feel that there never could be an end to her tears.

The second week in January had come and yet nothing further had been settled as to the Guatemala project. Lopez talked about it as though it was certain, and even told his wife as they would move so soon it would not be now worth while for him to take other lodgings for her. But when she asked as to her own preparations,–the wardrobe necessary for the long voyage and her general outfit,–he told her that three weeks or a fortnight would be enough for all, and that he would give her sufficient notice. ‘Upon my word he is very kind to honour my poor house as he does,’ said Mr Wharton.

‘Papa, we will go at once if you wish it,’ said his daughter.

‘Nay, Emily; do not turn upon me. I cannot but be sensible to the insult of his daily presence, but even that is better than losing you.’

Then there occurred a ludicrous incident,–or the combination of incidents,–which, in spite of their absurdity, drove Mr Wharton almost frantic. First there came to him the bill from Messrs Stewam and Sugarscraps for the dinner. At this time he kept nothing back from his daughter. ‘Look at that!’ he said. The bill was absolutely made out in his name.

‘It is a mistake, papa.’

‘Not at all. The dinner was given in my house, and I must pay for it. I would sooner do so than he should pay it,–even if he had the means.’ So he paid Messrs Stewam and Sugarscraps 25 pounds 9s 6d., begging them as he did so never to send another dinner into his house, and observing that he was in the habit of entertaining his friends at less than three guineas a head. ‘But Chateau Yquem and Cote d’Or!’ said Mr Sugarscraps. ‘Chateau fiddlesticks!’ said Mr Wharton, walking out of the house with his receipt.

Then came the bill for the brougham,–for the brougham from the very day of their return to town after their wedding trip. This he showed to Lopez. Indeed the bill had been made out to Lopez and sent to Mr Wharton with an apologetic note. ‘I didn’t tell him to send it,’ said Lopez.

‘But will you pay it?’

‘I certainly shall not ask you to pay it.’ But Mr Wharton at last did pay it, and he also paid the rent of the rooms in the Belgrave Mansions, and between 30 pounds and 40 pounds for dresses which Emily had got at Lewes and Allenby’s under her husband’s orders in the first days of their married life in London.

‘Oh, papa, I wish I had not gone there,’ she said.

‘My dear, anything that you may have had I do not grudge in the least. And even for him, if he would let you remain here, I would pay willingly. I would supply all he wants if he would only–go away.’

CHAPTER 50

MR SLIDE’S REVENGE.

‘Do you mean to say, my lady, that the Duke paid his electioneering bill down at Silverbridge?’

‘I do mean to say so, Mr Slide,’ Lady Eustace nodded her head, and Mr Quintus Slide opened his mouth.

‘Goodness gracious!’ said Mrs Leslie, who was sitting with them. They were in Lady Eustace’s drawing-room, and the patriotic editor of the “People’s Banner” was obtaining from a new ally information which might be useful to the country.

‘But ‘ow do you know, Lady Eustace? You’ll pardon the persistency of my inquiries, but when you come to public information accuracy is everything. I never trust myself to mere report, I always travel up to the very fountain ‘ead of truth.’

‘I know it,’ said Lizzy Eustace oracularly.

‘Um–m!’ The Editor as he ejaculated the sound looked at her ladyship with admiring eyes,–with eyes that were intended to flatter. But Lizzie had been looked at so often in so many ways, and was so well accustomed to admiration, that this had no effect on her at all. ‘He didn’t tell you himself, did ‘e now?’

‘Can you tell me the truth as to trusting him with my money?’

‘Yes, I can.’

‘Shall I be safe if I take the papers which he calls bills of sale?’

‘One good turn deserves another, my lady.’

‘I don’t want to make a secret of it, Mr Slide. Pountney found it out. You know the Major?’

‘Yes, I know Major Pountney. He was at Gatherum ‘imself, and got a little bit of a cold shoulder,–didn’t he?’

‘I dare say he did. What has that to do with it? You may be sure that Lopez applied to the Duke for his expenses at Silverbridge, and that the Duke sent him the money.’

‘There’s no doubt about it, Mr Slide,’ said Mrs Leslie. ‘We got it all from Major Pountney. There was some bet between him and Pountney, and he had to show Pountney the cheque.’

‘Pountney saw the money,’ said Lady Eustace.

Mr Slide stroked his had over his mouth and chin as he sat thinking of the tremendous national importance of this communication. The man who had paid the money was the Prime Minister of England,–and was, moreover, Mr Slide’s enemy! ‘When the right ‘and of fellowship had been rejected, I never forgive!’ Mr Slide has been heard to say. Even Lady Eustace, who was not particular as to the appearance of people, remarked afterwards to her friend that Mr Slide looked like the devil as he was stroking his face. ‘It’s very remarkable,’ said Mr Slide; ‘very remarkable.’

‘You won’t tell the Major that we told you,’ said her Ladyship.

‘Oh dear not. I only wanted to ‘ear how it was. And as to embarking your money, my lady, with Ferdinand Lopez,–I wouldn’t do it.’

‘Not if I get the bills of sale? It’s for rum, and they say rum will go up to any price.’

‘Don’t Lady Eustace. I can’t say any more,–but don’t. I never mention names. But don’t.’

Then Mr Slide went out in search of Major Pountney, and having found the major at his club extracted from him all that he knew about the Silverbridge payment. Pountney had really seen the Duke’s cheque for 500 pounds. ‘There was some bet,–eh, Major?’ asked Mr Slide.

‘No, there wasn’t. I know who had been telling you. That’s Lizzie Eustace, and just like her mischief. They way of it was this,–Lopez, who was very angry, had boasted that he would bring the Duke down on his marrow-bones. I was laughing at him as we sat at dinner on day afterwards, and he took out the cheque and showed it me. There was the Duke’s own signature for 500 pounds,–“Omnium”, as plain as letters could make it.’ Armed with this full information, Mr Slide felt that he had done all that the punctilious devotion to accuracy could demand of him, and immediately shut himself up in his cage at the “People’s Banner” office and went to work.

This occurred about the first week of January. The Duke was then at Matching with his wife and a very small party. The singular arrangement which had been effected by the Duchess in the early autumn had passed off without any wonderful effects. It had been done by her in pique, and the result had been apparently so absurd that it had at first frightened her. But in the end it answered very well. The Duke took great pleasure in Lady Rosina’s company, and enjoyed the apparent solitude which enabled him to work all day without interruption. His wife protested that it was just what she liked, though it must be feared that she soon became weary of it. To Lady Rosina it was of course Paradise on earth. In September, Phineas Finn and his wife came to them, and in October there were other relaxations and other business. The Prime Minister and his wife visited their Sovereign, and he made some very useful speeches through the country on his old favourite subject of decimal coinage. At Christmas, for a fortnight, they went to Gatherum Castle and entertained the neighbourhood,–the nobility and squirearchy dining there on one day, and the tenants and other farmers on another. All this went very smoothly, and the Duke did not become outrageously unhappy because the “People’s Banner” made sundry severe remarks on the absence of Cabinet Councils through the autumn.

After Christmas they returned to Matching, and had some of their old friends with them. There was the Duke of St Bungay and the Duchess, and Phineas Finn and his wife, and Lord and Lady Cantrip, Barrington Erle, and one or two others. But at this period there came a great trouble. One morning as the Duke sat in his own room after breakfast he read an article in the “People’s Banner”, of which the following sentences are a part. “We wish to know by whom were paid the expenses incurred by Mr Ferdinand Lopez during the late contest at Silverbridge. It may be that they were paid by that gentleman himself,–in which case we shall have nothing further to say, not caring at the present moment to inquire whether those expenses were or were not excessive. It may be that they were paid by subscription among his political friends,–and if so, again we shall be satisfied. Or it is possible that funds were supplied by a new political club of which we have lately heard much, and with the action of such body we of course have nothing to do. If an assurance can be given to us by Mr Lopez or his friends that such was the case we shall be satisfied.

“But a report has reached us, and we may say more than a report, which makes it our duty to ask this question. Were those expenses paid out of the private pocket of the present Prime Minister? If so, we maintain that we have discovered a blot in that nobleman’s character which it is our duty to the public to expose. We will go farther and say that if it be so,–if these expenses were paid out of the private pocket of the Duke of Omnium, it is not fit that that nobleman should any longer hold the high office which he now fills.

“We know that a peer should not interfere in elections for the House of Commons. We certainly know that a Minister of the Crown should not attempt to purchase parliamentary support. We happen to know also the almost more than public manner,–are we not justified in saying the ostentation?–with which at the last election the Duke repudiated all that influence with the borough which his predecessors, and we believe he himself, had so long exercised. He came forward telling us that he, at least, meant to have clean hands,–that he would not do as his forefathers had done,–that he would not even do as he himself had done in former years. What are we to think of the Duke of Omnium as a Minister of this country, if, after such assurances, he has out of is own pocket paid the electioneering expenses of a candidate at Silverbridge?” There was much more in the article, but the passages quoted will suffice to give the reader a sufficient idea of the accusation made, and which the Duke read in the retirement of his own chamber.

He read it twice before he allowed himself to think of the matter. The statement made was at any rate true to the letter. He had paid the man’s electioneering expenses. That he had done so from the purest motives he knew and the reader knows,–but he could even explain those motives without exposing his wife. Since the cheque was sent he had never spoken of the occurrence to any human being,–but he had thought of it very often. At the time his private Secretary, with much hesitation, almost with trepidation, had counselled him not to send the money. The Duke was a man with whom it was very easy to work, whose courtesy to all dependent on him was almost exaggerated, who never found fault, and was anxious as far as possible to do everything for himself. The comfort of those around him was always a matter of interest to him. Everything he held, he held as it were in trust for the enjoyment of others. But he was a man whom it was difficult to advise. He did not like advice. He was so thin- skinned that any counsel offered him took the form of criticism. When cautioned what shoes he should wear,–as had been done by Lady Rosina, or what wine or what horses he should buy, as was done by his butler and coachman, he was thankful, taking no pride to himself for knowledge as to shoes, wine, or horses. But as to his own conduct, private or public, as to any question of politics, as to his opinions and resolutions, he was jealous of interference. Mr Warburton therefore had almost trembled when asking the Duke whether he was quite sure about sending the money to Lopez. ‘Quite sure,’ the Duke had answered, having at that time made up his mind. Mr Warburton had not dared to express a further doubt, and the money had been sent. But from the moment of sending it doubts had repeated themselves in the Prime Minister’s mind.

Now he sat with the newspaper in his hand thinking of it. Of course it was open to him to take no notice of the matter,–to go on as though he had never seen the article, and to let the thing die if it would die. But he knew Mr Quintus Slide and his paper well enough to be sure that it would not die. The charge would be repeated in the “People’s Banner” till it was copied into other papers, and then the further question would be asked, –why had the Prime Minister allowed such an accusation to remain unanswered? But if he did notice it, what notice should he take of it? It was true. And surely he disobeyed no law. He had bribed no one. He had spent his money with no corrupt purpose. His sense of honour had taught him to think the man had received injury through his wife’s imprudence, and that he therefore was responsible as far as the pecuniary loss was concerned. He was not ashamed that it should be discussed in public.

Why had he allowed himself to be put into a position in which he was subject to such grievous annoyance? Since he had held his office he had not had a happy day, nor,–or so he told himself,– had he received from it any slightest gratification, nor could he buoy himself up with the idea that he was doing good service for his country. After a while he walked into the next room and showed the paper to Mr Warburton. ‘Perhaps you were right,’ he said, ‘when you told me not to send the money.’

‘It will matter nothing,’ said the private Secretary when he had read it,–thinking, however, that it might matter much, but wishing to spare the Duke.

‘I was obliged to repay the man as the Duchess had,–had encouraged him. The Duchess had not quite,–quite understood my wishes.’ Mr Warburton knew the whole history, having discussed it all with the Duchess more than once.

‘I think your Grace should take no notice of the article.’

No notice was taken of it, but three days afterwards there appeared a short paragraph in large type,–beginning with a question. “Does the Duke of Omnium intend to answer the question asked by us last Friday? Is it true that paid the expenses of Mr Lopez when that gentleman stood for Silverbridge? The Duke may be assured that the question will be repeated till it is answered.” This the Duke also saw and took to his private Secretary.

‘I would do nothing at any rate till it be noticed in some other paper,’ said the private Secretary. ‘The “People’s Banner” is known to be scandalous.’

‘Of course, it is scandalous. And, moreover, I know the motives and the malice of the wretched man who is the editor. But the paper is read, and the foul charge if repeated will become known, and the allegation made is true. I did pay the man’s election expenses,–and moreover to tell the truth openly as I do not scruple to do to you, I am not prepared to state publicly the reason why I did so. And nothing but that reason could justify me.’

‘Then I think your Grace should state it.’

‘I cannot do so.’

‘The Duke of St Bungay is here. Would it not be well to tell the whole affair to him?’

‘I will think of it. I do not know why I should have troubled you.’

‘Oh, my lord!’

‘Except that there is always some comfort in speaking even of one’s trouble. I will think about it. In the meantime you need perhaps not mention it again.’

‘Who? I? Oh, certainly not.’

‘I did not mean to others,–but to myself. I will turn it in my mind and speak of it when I have decided anything.’ And he did think about it, thinking of it so much that he could hardly get the matter out of mind day or night. To his wife he did not allude to it at all. Why trouble her with it? She had caused the evil, and he had cautioned her as to the future. She could not help him out of the difficulty she had created. He continued to turn the matter over in his thoughts till he so magnified it, and built it up into such proportions, that he again began to think that he must resign. It was, he thought, true that a man should not remain in office as Prime Minister who in such a matter could not clear his own conduct.

Then there was a third attack in the “People’s Banner”, and after that the matter was noticed in the “Evening Pulpit”. This notice the Duke of St Bungay saw and mentioned it to Mr Warburton. ‘Has the Duke spoken to you of some allegations made in the press as to the expenses of the late election at Silverbridge?’ The old Duke was at this time, and had been for some months, in a state of nervous anxiety about his friend. He had almost admitted to himself that he had been wrong in recommending a politician so weakly organized to take the office of Prime Minister. He had expected the man to be more manly,–had perhaps expected him to be less conscientiously scrupulous. But now, as the thing had been done, it must be maintained. Who else was there to take the office? Mr Gresham would not. To keep Mr Daubney out was the very essence of the Duke of St Bungay’s life,–the turning-point of his political creed, the one grand duty the idea of which was always present to him. And he had, moreover, a most true and affectionate regard for the man whom he now supported, appreciating the sweetness of his character,–believing still in the Minister’s patriotism, intelligence, devotion, and honesty; though he was forced to own to himself that the strength of a man’s heart was wanting.

‘Yes,’ said Warburton, ‘he did mention it.’

‘Does it trouble him?’

‘Perhaps you had better speak to him about it.’ Both the old Duke and the private Secretary were as fearful and nervous about the Prime Minister as a mother is for a weakly child. They could hardly tell their opinions to each other, but they understood one another, and between them they coddled the Prime Minister. They were specially nervous as to what might be done by the Prime Minister’s wife, nervous as to what was done by everyone who came in contact with him. It had been once suggested by the private Secretary that Lady Rosina should be sent for, as she had a soothing effect upon the Prime Minister’s spirit.

‘Has it irritated him?’ asked the Duke.

‘Well;–yes, it has,–a little, you know. I think your Grace had better speak to him;–and not perhaps mention my name.’ The Duke of St Bungay nodded his head, and said he would speak to the great man and would not mention anyone’s name.

And he did speak. ‘Has anyone said anything to you about it?’ asked the Prime Minister.

‘I saw it in the “Evening Pulpit” myself. I have not heard it mentioned anywhere.’

‘I did pay the man’s expenses.’

‘You did!’

‘Yes,–when the election was over, and, as far as I can remember, some time after it was over. He wrote to me saying that he had incurred such and such expenses, and asking me to repay him. I sent him a cheque for the amount.

‘But why?’

‘I was bound in honour to do it.’

‘But why?’

There was a short pause before this second question was answered. ‘The man had been induced to stand by representations made to him from my house. He had been, I fear, promised certain support which certainly was not given him when the time came.’

‘You had not promised it?’

‘No;–not I.’

‘Was it the Duchess?’

‘Upon the whole, my friend, I think I would rather not discuss it further, even with you. It is right that you should know that I did pay the money,–and also why I paid it. It may also be necessary that we should consider whether there may be any further probable result from my doing so. But the money has been paid, by me myself,–and was paid for the reason I have stated.’

‘A question might be asked in the House.’

‘If so, it must be answered as I have answered you. I certainly shall not shirk any responsibility that may be attached to me.’

‘You would not like Warburton to write a line to the newspaper?’

‘What;–to the “People’s Banner”!’

‘It began there, did it? No, not to the “People’s Banner”, but to the “Evening Pulpit”. He could say, you know, that the money was paid by you, and the payment had been made because your agents had misapprehended your instructions.’

‘It would not be true,’ said the Prime Minister, slowly.

‘As far as I can understand that was what occurred,’ said the other Duke.

‘My instructions were not misapprehended. They were disobeyed. I think that perhaps we had better say no more about it.’

‘Do not think I wish to press you,’ said the old man tenderly, ‘but I fear that something ought to be done;–I mean for your own comfort.’

‘My comfort!’ said the Prime Minister. ‘That has vanished long ago;–and my peace of mind, and my happiness.’

‘There has been nothing done which cannot be explained with perfect truth. There has been no impropriety.’

‘I do not know.’

‘The money was paid simply from an over-nice sense of honour.’

‘It cannot be explained. I cannot explain it even to you; and how then can I do it to all the gaping fools of the country who are ready to trample upon a man simply because he is some way conspicuous among them?’

After that the old Duke again spoke to Mr Warburton, but Mr Warburton was very loyal to his chief. ‘Could one do anything by speaking to the Duchess?’ said the old Duke.

‘I think not.’

‘I suppose it was her Grace who did it all?’

‘I cannot say. My own impression is that he had better wait till the Houses meet, and then, if any question is asked, let it be answered. He himself would do it in the House of Lords, or Mr Finn or Barrington Erle, in our House. It would be surely enough to explain that his Grace had been made to believe that the man had received encouragement at Silverbridge from his own agents, which he himself had not intended should be given, and that therefore he had thought it right to pay the money. After such an explanation what more could anyone say?’

‘You might do it yourself.’

‘I never speak.’

‘But in such a case as that you might do so; and then there would be no necessity for him to talk to another person on the matter.’

So the affair was left for the present, though the allusions to it in the “People’s Banner” were still continued. Nor did any other of the Prime Minister’s colleagues dare to speak to him on the subject. Barrington Erle and Phineas Finn talked of it among themselves, but they did not mention it even to the Duchess. She would have gone to her husband at once, and they were too careful of him to risk such a proceeding. It certainly was the case that among them they coddled the Prime Minister.

CHAPTER 51

CODDLING THE PRIME MINISTER.

Parliament was to meet on the 12th of February, and it was of course necessary that there should be a Cabinet Council before that time. The Prime Minister, about the end of the third week in January, was prepared to name a day for this, and did so, most unwillingly. But he was then ill, and talked both to his friend the old Duke, and his private Secretary of having the meeting held without him. ‘Impossible,’ said the old Duke.

‘If I could not go it would have to be possible.’

‘We could all come here if it were necessary.’

‘Bring fourteen or fifteen ministers out to town because a poor creature such as I am is ill!’ But in truth the Duke of St Bungay hardly believed in this illness. The Prime Minister was unhappy rather than ill.

By this time everyone in the House,–and almost everybody in the country who read the newspapers,–had heard of Mr Lopez and his election expenses,–except the Duchess. No one had yet dared to tell her. She saw the newspapers daily, but probably did not read them very attentively. Nevertheless she knew that something was wrong. Mr Warburton hovered about the Prime Minister more tenderly than usual; the Duke of St Bungay was more concerned; the world around her was more mysterious, and her husband more wretched. ‘What is it that’s going on?’ she said one day to Phineas Finn.

‘Everything,–in the same dull way as usual.’

‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll never speak to you again. I know there is something wrong.’

‘The Duke, I’m afraid, is not quite well.’

‘What makes him ill? I know well when he’s ill, and when he’s well. He’s troubled by something.’

‘I think he is, Duchess. But as he has not spoken to me I am loath to make guesses. If there be anything I can only guess at it.’

Then she questioned Mrs Finn, and got an answer, which, if not satisfactory, was at any rate explanatory. ‘I think he is uneasy about that Silverbridge affair.’

‘What Silverbridge affair?’

‘You know that he paid the expenses which that man Lopez says that he incurred.’

‘Yes;–I know that.’

‘And you know that that other man Slide has found it out, and published it all in the “People’s Banner”.’

‘No!’

‘Yes, indeed. And a whole army of accusations has been brought against him. I have never liked to tell you, and yet I do not think that you should be left in the dark.’

‘Everybody deceives me,’ said the Duchess angrily.

‘Nay;–there has been no deceit.’

‘Everybody keeps things from me. I think you will kill me among you. It was my doing. Why do they attack him? I will write to the papers. I encouraged the man after Plantagenet had determined that he should not be assisted,–and, because I had done so, he paid the man his beggarly money. What is there to hurt him in that? Let me bear it. My back is broad enough.’

‘The Duke is very sensitive.’

‘I hate people to be sensitive. It makes them cowards. A man when he is afraid of being blamed, dares not at last even show himself, and has to be wrapped in lamb’s wool.’

‘Of course men are differently organized.’

‘Yes;–but the worst of it is, that when they suffer from this weakness, which you call sensitiveness, they think that they are made of finer material than other people. Men shouldn’t be made of Sevres china, but of good stone earthenware. However, I don’t want to abuse him, poor fellow.’

‘I don’t think you ought.’

‘I know what that means. You do not want to abuse me. So they’ve been bullying him about the money he paid to that man Lopez. How did anybody know anything about it?’

‘Lopez must have told of it,’ said Mrs Finn.

‘The worst, my dear, of trying to know a great many people is, that you are sure to get hold of some that are very bad. Now that man is very bad. Yet they say he has married a nice wife.’

‘That’s often the case, Duchess.’

‘And the contrary;–isn’t it, my dear? But I shall have it out with Plantagenet. I have to write letters to all the newspapers myself, I’ll put it right.’ She certainly coddled her husband less than the others, and, indeed in her hearts of hearts disapproved altogether of the coddling system. But she was wont at this particular time to be somewhat tender to him because she was aware that she herself had been imprudent. Since he had discovered her interference at Silverbridge, and had made her understand its pernicious results, she had been,–not, perhaps, shamefaced, for that word describes a condition to which hardly any series of misfortunes could have reduced the Duchess of Omnium,–but inclined to quiescence by feelings of penitence. She was less disposed than heretofore to attack him with what the world of yesterday calls ‘chaff’, or with what the world of to- day calls ‘cheek’. She would not admit to herself that she was cowed;–but the greatness of the game and the high interest attached to her husband’s position did in some degree dismay her. Nevertheless she executed her purpose of ‘having it out with Plantagenet,’ ‘I have just heard,’ she said, having knocked at the door of his own room, and having found him alone,–‘I have just hear, for the first time, that there is a row about the money you paid to Mr Lopez.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Nobody told me,–in the usual sense of the word. I presumed that something was the matter, and then I got it from Marie. Why had you not told me?’

‘Why should I tell you?’

‘But why not? If anything troubled me, I should tell you. That is, if it troubled me much.’

‘You take it for granted that this does trouble me much.’ He was smiling as he said this, but the smile passed very quickly from his face. ‘I will not, however, deceive you. It does trouble me.’

‘I knew very well that something was wrong.’

‘I have not complained.’

‘One can see as much as that without words. What is it that you fear? What can the man do to you? What matter is it to you if such a one as that pours out his malice on you? Let it run off like the rain from the housetops. You are too big even to be stung by such a reptile as that.’ He looked into her face, admiring the energy with which she spoke to him. ‘As for answering him,’ she continued to say, ‘that may or may not be proper. If it should be done, there are people to do it. But I am speaking of your own inner self. You have a shield against your equals, and a sword to attack them with if necessary. Have you no armour of proof against such a creature as that? Have you nothing inside you to make you feel that he is too contemptible to be regarded?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh, Plantagenet!’

‘Cora, there a different natures which have each their own excellencies, and their own defects. I will not admit that I am a coward, believing as I do that I could dare to face necessary danger. But I cannot endure to have my character impugned,– even by Mr Lopez.’

‘What matter,–if you are in the right? Why blench if your conscience accuses you of no fault? I would not blench if it did. What,–is a man to be put in the front of everything, and then to be judged as though he could give all his time to the picking of his steps?’

‘Just so! And he must pick them more warily than another.’

‘I do not believe it. You see all this with jaundiced eyes. I read somewhere the other day that the great ships have always little worms attached to them, but that the great ships swim on and know nothing of the worms.’

‘The worms conquer at last.’

‘They shouldn’t conquer me! After all, what is it that they say about the money? That you ought not to have had it?’

‘I begin to think I was wrong to pay it.’

‘You certainly were not wrong. I had led the man on. I had been mistaken. I had thought he was a gentleman. Having led him on at first, before you had spoken to me, I did not like to go back from my word. I did go to the man at Silverbridge who sells the pots, and no doubt the man, when thus encouraged, told it all to Lopez. When Lopez went to the town he did suppose that he would have what the people call the Castle interest.’

‘And I had done so much to prevent it.’

‘What’s the use of going back on that now, unless you want me to put my neck down to be trodden on? I am confessing my own sins