The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  The man, certainly, was one strangely endowed with the power of creating a belief. When going to Mr. Wharton at his chambers he had not intended to cheat the lawyer into any erroneous idea about his family, but he had resolved that he would so discuss the questions of his own condition, which would probably be raised, as to leave upon the old man’s mind an unfounded conviction that in regard to money and income he had no reason to fear question. Not a word had been said about his money or his income. And Mr. Wharton had felt himself bound to abstain from allusion to such matters from an assured feeling that he could not in that direction plant an enduring objection. In this way Lopez had carried his point with Mr. Wharton. He had convinced Mrs. Roby that among all the girl’s attractions the greatest attraction for him was the fact that she was Mrs. Roby’s niece. He had made Emily herself believe that the one strong passion of his life was his love for her, and this he had done without ever having asked for her love. And he had even taken the trouble to allure Dick, and had listened to and had talked whole pages out of Bell’s Life. On his own behalf it must be acknowledged that he did love the girl, as well perhaps as he was capable of loving any one; — but he had found out many particulars as to Mr. Wharton’s money before he had allowed himself to love her.

  As soon as Mrs. Roby had gathered up her knitting, and declared, as she always did on such occasions, that she could go round the corner without having any one to look after her, Mr. Wharton began. “Emily, my dear, come here.” Then she came and sat on a footstool at his feet, and looked up into his face. “Do you know what I am going to speak to you about, my darling?”

  “Yes, papa; I think I do. It is about — Mr. Lopez.”

  “Your aunt has told you, I suppose. Yes; it is about Mr. Lopez. I have been very much astonished to-day by Mr. Lopez, — a man of whom I have seen very little and know less. He came to me to-day and asked for my permission — to address you.” She sat perfectly quiet, still looking at him, but she did not say a word. “Of course I did not give him permission.”

  “Why of course, papa?”

  “Because he is a stranger and a foreigner. Would you have wished me to tell him that he might come?”

  “Yes, papa.” He was sitting on a sofa and shrank back a little from her as she made this free avowal. “In that case I could have judged for myself. I suppose every girl would like to do that.”

  “But should you have accepted him?”

  “I think I should have consulted you before I did that. But I should have wished to accept him. Papa, I do love him. I have never said so before to any one. I would not say so to you now, if he had not — spoken to you as he has done.”

  “Emily, it must not be.”

  “Why not, papa? If you say it shall not be so, it shall not. I will do as you bid me.” Then he put out his hand and caressed her, stroking down her hair. “But I think you ought to tell me why it must not be, — as I do love him.”

  “He is a foreigner.”

  “But is he? And why should not a foreigner be as good as an Englishman? His name is foreign, but he talks English and lives as an Englishman.”

  “He has no relatives, no family, no belongings. He is what we call an adventurer. Marriage, my dear, is a most serious thing.”

  “Yes, papa, I know that.”

  “One is bound to be very careful. How can I give you to a man I know nothing about, — an adventurer? What would they say in Herefordshire?”

  “I don’t know why they should say anything, but if they did I shouldn’t much care.”

  “I should, my dear. I should care very much. One is bound to think of one’s family. Suppose it should turn out afterwards that he was — disreputable!”

  “You may say that of any man, papa.”

  “But when a man has connexions, a father and mother, or uncles and aunts, people that everybody knows about, then there is some guarantee of security. Did you ever hear this man speak of his father?”

  “I don’t know that I ever did.”

  “Or his mother, — or his family? Don’t you think that is suspicious?”

  “I will ask him, papa, if you wish.”

  “No, I would have you ask him nothing. I would not wish that there should be opportunity for such asking. If there has been intimacy between you, such information should have come naturally, — as a thing of course. You have made him no promise?”

  “Oh no, papa.”

  “Nor spoken to him — of your regard for him?”

  “Never; — not a word. Nor he to me, — except in such words as one understands even though they say nothing.”

  “I wish he had never seen you.”

  “Is he a bad man, papa?”

  “Who knows? I cannot tell. He may be ever so bad. How is one to know whether a man be bad or good when one knows nothing about him?” At this point the father got up and walked about the room. “The long and the short of it is that you must not see him any more.”

  “Did you tell him so?”

  “Yes; — well; I don’t know whether I said exactly that, but I told him that the whole thing must come to an end. And it must. Luckily it seems that nothing has been said on either side.”

  “But, papa — ; is there to be no reason?”

  “Haven’t I given reasons? I will not have my daughter encourage an adventurer, — a man of whom nobody knows anything. That is reason sufficient.”

  “He has a business, and he lives with gentlemen. He is Everett’s friend. He is well educated; — oh, so much better than most men that one meets. And he is clever. Papa, I wish you knew him better than you do.”

  “I do not want to know him better.”

  “Is not that prejudice, papa?”

  “My dear Emily,” said Mr. Wharton, striving to wax into anger that he might be firm against her, “I don’t think that it becomes you to ask your father such a question as that. You ought to believe that it is the chief object of my life to do the best I can for my children.”

  “I am sure it is.”

  “And you ought to feel that, as I have had a long experience in the world, my judgment about a young man might be trusted.”

  That was a statement which Miss Wharton was not prepared to admit. She had already professed herself willing to submit to her father’s judgment, and did not now by any means contemplate rebellion against parental authority. But she did feel that on a matter so vital to her she had a right to plead her cause before judgment should be given, and she was not slow to assure herself, even as this interview went on, that her love for the man was strong enough to entitle her to assure her father that her happiness depended on his reversal of the sentence already pronounced. “You know, papa, that I trust you,” she said. “And I have promised you that I will not disobey you. If you tell me that I am never to see Mr. Lopez again, I will not see him.”

  “You are a good girl. You were always a good girl.”

  “But I think that you ought to hear me.” Then he stood still with his hands in his trowsers pockets looking at her. He did not want to hear a word, but he felt that he would be a tyrant if he refused. “If you tell me that I am not to see him, I shall not see him. But I shall be very unhappy. I do love him, and I shall never love any one else in the same way.”

  “That is nonsense, Emily. There is Arthur Fletcher.”

  “I am sure you will never ask me to marry a man I do not love, and I shall never love Arthur Fletcher. If this is to be as you say, it will make me very, very wretched. It is right that you should know the truth. If it is only because Mr. Lopez has a foreign name — “

  “It isn’t only that; no one knows anything about him, or where to inquire even.”

  “I think you should inquire, papa, and be quite certain before you pronounce such a sentence against me. It will be a crushing blow.” He looked at her, and saw that there was a fixed purpose in her countenance of which he had never before seen similar signs. “You claim a right to my obedience, and I acknowledge it. I am sure you believe me when I promi
se not to see him without your permission.”

  “I do believe you. Of course I believe you.”

  “But if I do that for you, papa, I think that you ought to be very sure, on my account, that I haven’t to bear such unhappiness for nothing. You’ll think about it, papa, — will you not, before you quite decide?” She leaned against him as she spoke, and he kissed her. “Good night, now, papa. You will think about it?”

  “I will. I will. Of course I will.”

  And he began the process of thinking about it immediately, — before the door was closed behind her. But what was there to think about? Nothing that she had said altered in the least his idea about the man. He was as convinced as ever that unless there was much to conceal there would not be so much concealment. But a feeling began to grow upon him already that his daughter had a mode of pleading with him which he would not ultimately be able to resist. He had the power, he knew, of putting an end to the thing altogether. He had only to say resolutely and unchangeably that the thing shouldn’t be, and it wouldn’t be. If he could steel his heart against his daughter’s sorrow for, say, a twelvemonth, the victory would be won. But he already began to fear that he lacked the power to steel his heart against his daughter.

  CHAPTER VI

  An Old Friend Goes to Windsor

  “And what are they going to make you now?”

  This question was asked of her husband by a lady with whom perhaps the readers of this volume may have already formed some acquaintance. Chronicles of her early life have been written, at any rate copiously. The lady was the Duchess of Omnium, and her husband was of course the Duke. In order that the nature of the question asked by the duchess may be explained, it must be stated that just at this time the political affairs of the nation had got themselves tied up into one of those truly desperate knots from which even the wisdom and experience of septuagenarian statesmen can see no unravelment. The heads of parties were at a standstill. In the House of Commons there was, so to say, no majority on either side. The minds of members were so astray that, according to the best calculation that could be made, there would be a majority of about ten against any possible Cabinet. There would certainly be a majority against either of those well-tried but, at this moment, little-trusted Prime Ministers, Mr. Gresham and Mr. Daubeny. There were certain men, nominally belonging to this or to the other party, who would certainly within a week of the nomination of a Cabinet in the House, oppose the Cabinet which they ought to support. Mr. Daubeny had been in power, — nay, was in power, though he had twice resigned. Mr. Gresham had been twice sent for to Windsor, and had on one occasion undertaken and on another had refused to undertake to form a Ministry. Mr. Daubeny had tried two or three combinations, and had been at his wits’ end. He was no doubt still in power, — could appoint bishops, and make peers, and give away ribbons. But he couldn’t pass a law, and certainly continued to hold his present uncomfortable position by no will of his own. But a Prime Minister cannot escape till he has succeeded in finding a successor; and though the successor be found and consents to make an attempt, the old unfortunate cannot be allowed to go free when that attempt is shown to be a failure. He has not absolutely given up the keys of his boxes, and no one will take them from him. Even a sovereign can abdicate; but the Prime Minister of a constitutional government is in bonds. The reader may therefore understand that the Duchess was asking her husband what place among the political rulers of the country had been offered to him by the last aspirant to the leadership of the Government.

  But the reader should understand more than this, and may perhaps do so, if he has ever seen those former chronicles to which allusion has been made. The Duke, before he became a duke, had held very high office, having been Chancellor of the Exchequer. When he was transferred, perforce, to the House of Lords, he had, — as is not uncommon in such cases, — accepted a lower political station. This had displeased the Duchess, who was ambitious both on her own behalf and that of her lord, — and who thought that a Duke of Omnium should be nothing in the Government if not at any rate near the top. But after that, with the simple and single object of doing some special piece of work for the nation, — something which he fancied that nobody else would do if he didn’t do it, — his Grace, of his own motion, at his own solicitation, had encountered further official degradation, very much to the disgust of the Duchess. And it was not the way with her Grace to hide such sorrows in the depth of her bosom. When affronted she would speak out, whether to her husband, or to another, — using irony rather than argument to support her cause and to vindicate her ways. The shafts of ridicule hurled by her against her husband in regard to his voluntary abasement had been many and sharp. They stung him, but never for a moment influenced him. And though they stung him, they did not even anger him. It was her nature to say such things, — and he knew that they came rather from her uncontrolled spirit than from any malice. She was his wife too, and he had an idea that of little injuries of that sort there should be no end of bearing on the part of a husband. Sometimes he would endeavour to explain to her the motives which actuated him; but he had come to fear that they were and must ever be unintelligible to her. But he credited her with less than her real intelligence. She did understand the nature of his work and his reasons for doing it; and, after her own fashion, did what she conceived to be her own work in endeavouring to create within his bosom a desire for higher things. “Surely,” she said to herself, “if a man of his rank is to be a minister he should be a great minister; — at any rate as great as his circumstances will make him. A man never can save his country by degrading himself.” In this he would probably have agreed; but his idea of degradation and hers hardly tallied.

  When therefore she asked him what they were going to make him, it was as though some sarcastic housekeeper in a great establishment should ask the butler, — some butler too prone to yield in such matters, — whether the master had appointed him lately to the cleaning of shoes or the carrying of coals. Since these knots had become so very tight, and since the journeys to Windsor had become so very frequent, her Grace had asked many such questions, and had received but very indifferent replies. The Duke had sometimes declared that the matter was not ripe enough to allow him to make any answer. “Of course,” said the Duchess, “you should keep the secret. The editors of the evening papers haven’t known it for above an hour.” At another time he told her that he had undertaken to give Mr. Gresham his assistance in any way in which it might be asked. “Joint Under-Secretary with Lord Fawn, I should say,” answered the Duchess. Then he told her that he believed an attempt would be made at a mixed ministry, but that he did not in the least know to whom the work of doing so would be confided. “You will be about the last man who will be told,” replied the Duchess. Now, at this moment, he had, as she knew, come direct from the house of Mr. Gresham, and she asked her question in her usual spirit. “And what are they going to make you now?”

  But he did not answer the question in his usual manner. He would customarily smile gently at her badinage, and perhaps say a word intended to show that he was not in the least moved by her raillery. But in this instance he was very grave, and stood before her a moment making no answer at all, looking at her in a sad and almost solemn manner. “They have told you that they can do without you,” she said, breaking out almost into a passion. “I knew how it would be. Men are always valued by others as they value themselves.”

  “I wish it were so,” he replied. “I should sleep easier to-night.”

  “What is it, Plantagenet?” she exclaimed, jumping up from her chair.

  “I never cared for your ridicule hitherto, Cora; but now I feel that I want your sympathy.”

  “If you are going to do anything, — to do really anything, you shall have it. Oh, how you shall have it!”

  “I have received her Majesty’s orders to go down to Windsor at once. I must start within half-an-hour.”

  “You are going to be Prime Minister!” she exclaimed. As she spoke she threw her arms up,
and then rushed into his embrace. Never since their first union had she been so demonstrative either of love or admiration. “Oh, Plantagenet,” she said, “if I can only do anything I will slave for you.” As he put his arm round her waist he already felt the pleasantness of her altered way to him. She had never worshipped him yet, and therefore her worship when it did come had all the delight to him which it ordinarily has to the newly married hero.

  “Stop a moment, Cora. I do not know how it may be yet. But this I know, that if without cowardice I could avoid this task, I would certainly avoid it.”

  “Oh no! And there would be cowardice; of course there would,” said the Duchess, not much caring what might be the bonds which bound him to the task so long as he should certainly feel himself to be bound.

  “He has told me that he thinks it my duty to make the attempt.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Mr. Gresham. I do not know that I should have felt myself bound by him, but the Duke said so also.” This duke was our duke’s old friend, the Duke of St. Bungay.

  “Was he there? And who else?”

  “No one else. It is no case for exultation, Cora, for the chances are that I shall fail. The Duke has promised to help me, on condition that one or two he has named are included, and that one or two whom he has also named are not. In each case I should myself have done exactly as he proposes.”