The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “There was a queer story once, — wasn’t there?” asked Mrs. Dick.

  “I never quite believed that,” said Roby. “It was something about some lover she had before she was married. She went off to Switzerland. But the Duke, — he was Mr. Palliser then, — followed her very soon and it all came right.”

  “When ladies are going to be duchesses, things do come right; don’t they?” said Mrs. Happerton.

  On the other side of Mrs. Happerton was Mr. Wharton, quite unable to talk to his right-hand neighbour, the Secretary’s wife. The elder Mrs. Roby had not, indeed, much to say for herself, and he during the whole dinner was in misery. He had resolved that there should be no intimacy of any kind between his daughter and Ferdinand Lopez, — nothing more than the merest acquaintance; and there they were, talking together before his very eyes, with more evident signs of understanding each other than were exhibited by any other two persons at the table. And yet he had no just ground of complaint against either of them. If people dine together at the same house, it may of course happen that they shall sit next to each other. And if people sit next to each other at dinner, it is expected that they shall talk. Nobody could accuse Emily of flirting; but then she was a girl who under no circumstances would condescend to flirt. But she had declared boldly to her father that she loved this man, and there she was in close conversation with him! Would it not be better for him to give up any further trouble, and let her marry the man? She would certainly do so sooner or later.

  When the ladies went upstairs that misery was over for a time, but Mr. Wharton was still not happy. Dick came round and took his wife’s chair, so that he sat between the lord and his brother. Lopez and Happerton fell into city conversation, and Sir Damask tried to amuse himself with Mr. Wharton. But the task was hopeless, — as it always is when the elements of a party have been ill-mixed. Mr. Wharton had not even heard of the new Aldershot coach which Sir Damask had just started with Colonel Buskin and Sir Alfonso Blackbird. And when Sir Damask declared that he drove the coach up and down twice a week himself, Mr. Wharton at any rate affected to believe that such a thing was impossible. Then when Sir Damask gave his opinion as to the cause of the failure of a certain horse at Northampton, Mr. Wharton gave him no encouragement whatever. “I never was at a racecourse in my life,” said the barrister. After that Sir Damask drank his wine in silence.

  “You remember that claret, my lord?” said Dick, thinking that some little compensation was due to him for what had been said about the champagne.

  But Lord Mongrober’s dinner had not yet had the effect of mollifying the man sufficiently for Dick’s purposes. “Oh, yes, I remember the wine. You call it ‘57, don’t you?”

  “And it is ‘57; — ‘57, Leoville.”

  “Very likely, — very likely. If it hadn’t been heated before the fire — “

  “It hasn’t been near the fire,” said Dick.

  “Or put into a hot decanter — “

  “Nothing of the kind.”

  “Or treated after some other damnable fashion, it would be very good wine, I dare say.”

  “You are hard to please, my lord, to-day,” said Dick, who was put beyond his bearing.

  “What is a man to say? If you will talk about your wine, I can only tell you what I think. Any man may get good wine, — that is if he can afford to pay the price, — but it isn’t one out of ten who knows how to put it on the table.” Dick felt this to be very hard. When a man pays 110s. a dozen for his champagne, and then gives it to guests like Lord Mongrober who are not even expected to return the favour, then that man ought to be allowed to talk about his wine without fear of rebuke. One doesn’t have an agreement to that effect written down on parchment and sealed; but it is as well understood and ought to be as faithfully kept as any legal contract. Dick, who could on occasions be awakened to a touch of manliness, gave the bottle a shove and threw himself back in his chair. “If you ask me, I can only tell you,” repeated Lord Mongrober.

  “I don’t believe you ever had a bottle of wine put before you in better order in all your life,” said Dick. His lordship’s face became very square and very red as he looked round at his host. “And as for talking about my wine, of course I talk to a man about what he understands. I talk to Monogram about pigeons, to Tom there about politics, to Apperton and Lopez about the price of consols, and to you about wine. If I asked you what you thought of the last new book, your lordship would be a little surprised.” Lord Mongrober grunted and looked redder and squarer than ever; but he made no attempt at reply, and the victory was evidently left with Dick, — very much to the general exaltation of his character. And he was proud of himself. “We had a little tiff, me and Mongrober,” he said to his wife that night. “‘E’s a very good fellow, and of course he’s a lord and all that. But he has to be put down occasionally, and, by George, I did it to-night. You ask Lopez.”

  There were two drawing-rooms up-stairs, opening into each other, but still distinct. Emily had escaped into the back room, avoiding the gushing sentiments and equivocal morals of Lady Eustace and Mrs. Leslie, — and here she was followed by Ferdinand Lopez. Mr. Wharton was in the front room, and though on entering it he did look round furtively for his daughter, he was ashamed to wander about in order that he might watch her. And there were others in the back room, — Dick and Monogram standing on the rug, and the elder Mrs. Roby seated in a corner; — so that there was nothing peculiar in the position of the two lovers.

  “Must I understand,” said he, “that I am banished from Manchester Square?”

  “Has papa banished you?”

  “That’s what I want you to tell me.”

  “I know you had an interview with him, Mr. Lopez.”

  “Yes. I had.”

  “And you must know best what he told you.”

  “He would explain himself better to you than he did to me.”

  “I doubt that very much. Papa, when he has anything to say, generally says it plainly. However, I do think that he did intend to banish you. I do not know why I should not tell you the truth.”

  “I do not know either.”

  “I think he did — intend to banish you.”

  “And you?”

  “I shall be guided by him in all things, — as far as I can.”

  “Then I am banished by you also?”

  “I did not say so. But if papa says that you are not to come there, of course I cannot ask you to do so.”

  “But I may see you here?”

  “Mr. Lopez, I will not be asked some questions. I will not indeed.”

  “You know why I ask them. You know that to me you are more than all the world.” She stood still for a moment after hearing this, and then without any reply walked away into the other room. She felt half ashamed of herself in that she had not rebuked him for speaking to her in that fashion after his interview with her father, and yet his words had filled her heart with delight. He had never before plainly declared his love to her, — though she had been driven by her father’s questions to declare her own love to herself. She was quite sure of herself, — that the man was and would always be to her the one being whom she would prefer to all others. Her fate was in her father’s hands. If he chose to make her wretched he must do so. But on one point she had quite made up her mind. She would make no concealment. To the world at large she had nothing to say on the matter. But with her father there should be no attempt on her part to keep back the truth. Were he to question her on the subject she would tell him, as far as her memory would serve her, the very words which Lopez had spoken to her this evening. She would ask nothing from him. He had already told her that the man was to be rejected, and had refused to give any other reason than his dislike to the absence of any English connexion. She would not again ask even for a reason. But she would make her father understand that though she obeyed him she regarded the exercise of his authority as tyrannical and irrational.

  They left the house before any of the other guests and walked round th
e corner together into the Square. “What a very vulgar set of people!” said Mr. Wharton as soon as they were down the steps.

  “Some of them were,” said Emily, making a mental reservation of her own.

  “Upon my word I don’t know where to make the exception. Why on earth any one should want to know such a person as Lord Mongrober I can’t understand. What does he bring into society?”

  “A title.”

  “But what does that do of itself? He is an insolent, bloated brute.”

  “Papa, you are using strong language to-night.”

  “And that Lady Eustace! Heaven and earth! Am I to be told that that creature is a lady?”

  They had now come to their own door, and while that was being opened and as they went up into their own drawing-room, nothing was said, but then Emily began again. “I wonder why you go to Aunt Harriet’s at all. You don’t like the people?”

  “I didn’t like any of them to-day.”

  “Why do you go there? You don’t like Aunt Harriet herself. You don’t like Uncle Dick. You don’t like Mr. Lopez.”

  “Certainly I do not.”

  “I don’t know who it is you do like.”

  “I like Mr. Fletcher.”

  “It’s no use saying that to me, papa.”

  “You ask me a question, and I choose to answer it. I like Arthur Fletcher, because he is a gentleman, — because he is a gentleman of the class to which I belong myself; because he works; because I know all about him, so that I can be sure of him; because he had a decent father and mother; because I am safe with him, being quite sure that he will say to me neither awkward things nor impertinent things. He will not talk to me about driving a mail coach like that foolish baronet, nor tell me the price of all his wines like your uncle.” Nor would Ferdinand Lopez do so, thought Emily to herself. “But in all such matters, my dear, the great thing is like to like. I have spoken of a young person, merely because I wish you to understand that I can sympathise with others besides those of my own age. But to-night there was no one there at all like myself, — or, as I hope, like you. That man Roby is a chattering ass. How such a man can be useful to any government I can’t conceive. Happerton was the best, but what had he to say for himself? I’ve always thought that there was very little wit wanted to make a fortune in the City.” In this frame of mind Mr. Wharton went off to bed, but not a word more was spoken about Ferdinand Lopez.

  CHAPTER XI

  Carlton Terrace

  Certainly the thing was done very well by Lady Glen, — as many in the political world persisted in calling her even in these days. She had not as yet quite carried out her plan, — the doing of which would have required her to reconcile her husband to some excessive abnormal expenditure, and to have obtained from him a deliberate sanction for appropriation and probable sale of property. She never could find the proper moment for doing this, having, with all her courage, — low down in some corner of her heart, — a wholesome fear of a certain quiet power which her husband possessed. She could not bring herself to make her proposition; — but she almost acted as though it had been made and approved. Her house was always gorgeous with flowers. Of course there would be the bill; — and he, when he saw the exotics, and the whole place turned into a bower of ever fresh blooming floral glories, must know that there would be the bill. And when he found that there was an archducal dinner-party every week, and an almost imperial reception twice a week; that at these receptions a banquet was always provided; when he was asked whether she might buy a magnificent pair of bay carriage-horses, as to which she assured him that nothing so lovely had ever as yet been seen stepping in the streets of London, — of course he must know that the bills would come. It was better, perhaps, to do it in this way, than to make any direct proposition. And then, early in June, she spoke to him as to the guests to be invited to Gatherum Castle in August. “Do you want to go to Gatherum in August?” he asked in surprise. For she hated the place, and had hardly been content to spend ten days there every year at Christmas.

  “I think it should be done,” she said solemnly. “One cannot quite consider just now what one likes oneself.”

  “Why not?”

  “You would hardly go to a small place like Matching in your present position. There are so many people whom you should entertain! You would probably have two or three of the foreign ministers down for a time.”

  “We always used to find plenty of room at Matching.”

  “But you did not always use to be Prime Minister. It is only for such a time as this that such a house as Gatherum is serviceable.”

  He was silent for a moment, thinking about it, and then gave way without another word. She was probably right. There was the huge pile of magnificent buildings; and somebody, at any rate, had thought that it behoved a Duke of Omnium to live in such a palace. If it ought to be done at any time, it ought to be done now. In that his wife had been right. “Very well. Then let us go there.”

  “I’ll manage it all,” said the Duchess, — “I and Locock.” Locock was the house-steward.

  “I remember once,” said the Duke, and he smiled as he spoke with a peculiarly sweet expression, which would at times come across his generally inexpressive face, — “I remember once that some First Minister of the Crown gave evidence as to the amount of his salary, saying that his place entailed upon him expenses higher than his stipend would defray. I begin to think that my experience will be the same.”

  “Does that fret you?”

  “No, Cora; — it certainly does not fret me, or I should not allow it. But I think there should be a limit. No man is ever rich enough to squander.”

  Though they were to squander her fortune, — the money which she had brought, — for the next ten years at a much greater rate than she contemplated, they might do so without touching the Palliser property. Of that she was quite sure. And the squandering was to be all for his glory, — so that he might retain his position as a popular Prime Minister. For an instant it occurred to her that she would tell him all this. But she checked herself, and the idea of what she had been about to say brought the blood into her face. Never yet had she in talking to him alluded to her own wealth. “Of course we are spending money,” she said. “If you give me a hint to hold my hand, I will hold it.”

  He had looked at her, and read it all in her face. “God knows,” he said, “you’ve a right to do it if it pleases you.”

  “For your sake!” Then he stooped down and kissed her twice, and left her to arrange her parties as she pleased. After that she congratulated herself that she had not made the direct proposition, knowing that she might now do pretty much what she pleased.

  Then there were solemn cabinets held, at which she presided, and Mrs. Finn and Locock assisted. At other cabinets it is supposed that, let a leader be ever so autocratic by disposition and superior by intelligence, still he must not unfrequently yield to the opinion of his colleagues. But in this cabinet the Duchess always had her own way, though she was very persistent in asking for counsel. Locock was frightened about the money. Hitherto money had come without a word, out of the common, spoken to the Duke. The Duke had always signed certain cheques, but they had been normal cheques; and the money in its natural course had flown in to meet them; — but now he must be asked to sign abnormal cheques. That, indeed, had already been done; but still the money had been there. A large balance, such as had always stood to his credit, would stand a bigger racket than had yet been made. But Locock was quite sure that the balance ought not to be much further reduced, — and that steps must be taken. Something must be sold! The idea of selling anything was dreadful to the mind of Locock! Or else money must be borrowed! Now the management of the Palliser property had always been conducted on principles antagonistic to borrowing. “But his Grace has never spent his income,” said the Duchess. That was true. But the money, as it showed a tendency to heap itself up, had been used for the purchase of other bits of property, or for the amelioration of the estates generally. “You don�
�t mean to say that we can’t get money if we want it!” Locock was profuse in his assurances that any amount of money could be obtained, — only that something must be done. “Then let something be done,” said the Duchess, going on with her general plans. “Many people are rich,” said the Duchess afterwards to her friend, “and some people are very rich indeed; but nobody seems to be rich enough to have ready money to do just what he wishes. It all goes into a grand sum total, which is never to be touched without a feeling of sacrifice. I suppose you have always enough for everything.” It was well known that the present Mrs. Finn, as Madame Goesler, had been a wealthy woman.

  “Indeed, no; — very far from that. I haven’t a shilling.”

  “What has happened?” asked the Duchess, pretending to be frightened.

  “You forget that I’ve got a husband of my own, and that he has to be consulted.”

  “That must be nonsense. But don’t you think women are fools to marry when they’ve got anything of their own, and could be their own mistresses? I couldn’t have been. I was made to marry before I was old enough to assert myself.”

  “And how well they did for you!”

  “Pas si mal. — He’s Prime Minister, which is a great thing, and I begin to find myself filled to the full with political ambition. I feel myself to be a Lady Macbeth, prepared for the murder of any Duncan or any Daubeny who may stand in my lord’s way. In the meantime, like Lady Macbeth herself, we must attend to the banqueting. Her lord appeared and misbehaved himself; my lord won’t show himself at all, — which I think is worse.”

  Our old friend Phineas Finn, who had now reached a higher place in politics than even his political dreams had assigned to him, though he was a Member of Parliament, was much away from London in these days. New brooms sweep clean; and official new brooms, I think, sweep cleaner than any other. Who has not watched at the commencement of a Ministry some Secretary, some Lord, or some Commissioner, who intends by fresh Herculean labours to cleanse the Augean stables just committed to his care? Who does not know the gentleman at the Home Office, who means to reform the police and put an end to malefactors; or the new Minister at the Board of Works, who is to make London beautiful as by a magician’s stroke, — or, above all, the new First Lord, who is resolved that he will really build us a fleet, purge the dock-yards, and save us half a million a year at the same time? Phineas Finn was bent on unriddling the Irish sphinx. Surely something might be done to prove to his susceptible countrymen that at the present moment no curse could be laid upon them so heavy as that of having to rule themselves apart from England; and he thought that this might be the easier, as he became from day to day more thoroughly convinced that those Home Rulers who were all around him in the House were altogether of the same opinion. Had some inscrutable decree of fate ordained and made it certain, — with a certainty not to be disturbed, — that no candidate could be returned to Parliament who would not assert the earth to be triangular, there would rise immediately a clamorous assertion of triangularity among political aspirants. The test would be innocent. Candidates have swallowed, and daily do swallow, many a worse one. As might be this doctrine of a great triangle, so is the doctrine of Home Rule. Why is a gentleman of property to be kept out in the cold by some O’Mullins because he will not mutter an unmeaning shibboleth? “Triangular? Yes, — or lozenge-shaped, if you please; but, gentlemen, I am the man for Tipperary.” Phineas Finn, having seen, or thought that he had seen, all this, began, from the very first moment of his appointment, to consider painfully within himself whether the genuine services of an honest and patriotic man might not compass some remedy for the present ill-boding ferment of the country. What was it that the Irish really did want; — what that they wanted, and had not got, and which might with propriety be conceded to them? What was it that the English really would refuse to sanction, even though it might not be wanted? He found himself beating about among rocks as to Catholic education and Papal interference, the passage among which might be made clearer to him in Irish atmosphere than in that of Westminster. Therefore he was away a good deal in these days, travelling backwards and forwards as he might be wanted for any debate. But as his wife did not accompany him on these fitful journeys, she was able to give her time very much to the Duchess.