The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “Circumstances, mother, make people different,” he replied.

  “So you are going without having anything fixed,” his elder brother said to him the day before he started.

  “Yes, old fellow. It seems to be rather slack; — doesn’t it?”

  “I dare say you know best what you’re about. But if you have set your mind on it — “

  “You may take your oath on that.”

  “Then I don’t see why one word shouldn’t put it all right. There never is any place so good for that kind of thing as a country house.”

  “I don’t think that with her it will make much difference where the house is, or what the circumstances.”

  “She knows what you mean as well as I do.”

  “I dare say she does, John. She must have a very bad idea of me if she doesn’t. But she may know what I mean and not mean the same thing herself.”

  “How are you to know if you don’t ask her?”

  “You may be sure that I shall ask her as soon as I can hope that my doing so may give her more pleasure than pain. Remember, I have had all this out with her father. I have determined that I will wait till twelve months have passed since that wretched man perished.”

  On that afternoon before dinner he was alone with her in the library some minutes before they went up to dress for dinner. “I shall hardly see you to-morrow,” he said, “as I must leave this at half-past eight. I breakfast at eight. I don’t suppose any one will be down except my mother.”

  “I am generally as early as that. I will come down and see you start.”

  “I am so glad that you have been here, Emily.”

  “So am I. Everybody has been so good to me.”

  “It has been like old days, — almost.”

  “It will never quite be like old days again, I think. But I have been very glad to be here, — and at Wharton. I sometimes almost wish that I were never going back to London again, — only for papa.”

  “I like London myself.”

  “You! Yes, of course you like London. You have everything in life before you. You have things to do, and much to hope for. It is all beginning for you, Arthur.”

  “I am five years older than you are.”

  “What does that matter? It seems to me that age does not go by years. It is long since I have felt myself to be an old woman. But you are quite young. Everybody is proud of you, and you ought to be happy.”

  “I don’t know,” said he. “It is hard to say what makes a person happy.” He almost made up his mind to speak to her then; but he had made up his mind before to put it off still for a little time, and he would not allow himself to be changed on the spur of the moment. He had thought of it much, and he had almost taught himself to think that it would be better for herself that she should not accept another man’s love so soon. “I shall come and see you in town,” he said.

  “You must come and see papa. It seems that Everett is to be a great deal at Wharton. I had better go up to dress now, or I shall be keeping them waiting.” He put out his hand to her, and wished her good-bye, excusing himself by saying that they should not be alone together again before he started.

  She saw him go on the next morning, — and then she almost felt herself to be abandoned, almost deserted. It was a fine crisp winter day, dry and fresh and clear, but with the frost still on the ground. After breakfast she went out to walk by herself in the long shrubbery paths which went round the house, and here she remained for above an hour. She told herself that she was very thankful to him for not having spoken to her on a subject so unfit for her ears as love. She strengthened herself in her determination never again to listen to a man willingly on that subject. She had made herself unfit to have any dealings of that nature. It was not that she could not love. Oh, no! She knew well enough that she did love, — love with all her heart. If it were not that she were so torn to rags that she was not fit to be worn again, she could now have thrown herself into his arms with a whole heaven of joy before her. A woman, she told herself, had no right to a second chance in life, after having made such a shipwreck of herself in the first. But the danger of being seduced from her judgment by Arthur Fletcher was all over. He had been near her for the last week and had not spoken a word. He had been in the same house with her for the last ten days and had been with her as a brother might be with his sister. It was not only she who had seen the propriety of this. He also had acknowledged it, and she was — grateful to him. As she endeavoured in her solitude to express her gratitude in spoken words the tears rolled down her cheeks. She was glad, she told herself, very glad that it was so. How much trouble and pain to both of them would thus be spared! And yet her tears were bitter tears. It was better as it was; — and yet one word of love would have been very sweet. She almost thought that she would have liked to tell him that for his sake, for his dear sake, she would refuse — that which now would never be offered to her. She was quite clear as to the rectitude of her own judgment, clear as ever. And yet her heart was heavy with disappointment.

  It was the end of March before she left Herefordshire for London, having spent the greater part of the time at Longbarns. The ladies at that place were moved by many doubts as to what would be the end of all this. Mrs. Fletcher the elder at last almost taught herself to believe that there would be no marriage, and having got back to that belief, was again opposed to the idea of a marriage. Anything and everything that Arthur wanted he ought to have. The old lady felt no doubt as to that. When convinced that he did want to have this widow, — this woman whose life had hitherto been so unfortunate, — she had for his sake taken the woman again by the hand, and had assisted in making her one of themselves. But how much better it would be that Arthur should think better of it! It was the maddest constancy, — this clinging to the widow of such a man as Ferdinand Lopez! If there were any doubt, then she would be prepared to do all she could to prevent the marriage. Emily had been forgiven, and the pardon bestowed must of course be continued. But she might be pardoned without being made Mrs. Arthur Fletcher. While Emily was still at Longbarns the old lady almost talked over her daughter-in-law to this way of thinking, — till John Fletcher put his foot upon it altogether. “I don’t pretend to say what she may do,” he said.

  “Oh, John,” said the mother, “to hear a man like you talk like that is absurd. She’d jump at him if he looked at her with half an eye.”

  “What she may do,” he continued saying, without appearing to listen to his mother, “I cannot say. But that he will ask her to be his wife is as certain as that I stand here.”

  CHAPTER LXXII

  “He Thinks That Our Days Are Numbered”

  All the details of the new County Suffrage Bill were settled at Matching during the recess between Mr. Monk, Phineas Finn, and a very experienced gentleman from the Treasury, one Mr. Prime, who was supposed to know more about such things than any man living, and was consequently called Constitution Charlie. He was an elderly man, over sixty years of age, who remembered the first Reform Bill, and had been engaged in the doctoring of constituencies ever since. The Bill, if passed, would be mainly his Bill, and yet the world would never hear his name as connected with it. Let us hope that he was comfortable at Matching, and that he found his consolation in the smiles of the Duchess. During this time the old Duke was away, and even the Prime Minister was absent for some days. He would fain have busied himself about the Bill himself, but was hardly allowed by his colleagues to have any hand in framing it. The great points of the measure had of course been arranged in the Cabinet, — where, however, Mr. Monk’s views had been adopted almost without a change. It may not perhaps be too much to assume that one or two members of the Cabinet did not quite understand the full scope of every suggested clause. The effects which clauses will produce, the dangers which may be expected from this or that change, the manner in which this or that proposition will come out in the washing, do not strike even Cabinet Ministers at a glance. A little study in a man’s own cabinet, after the reading
perhaps of a few leading articles, and perhaps a short conversation with an astute friend or two, will enable a statesman to be strong at a given time for, or even, if necessary, against a measure, who has listened in silence, and has perhaps given his personal assent, to the original suggestion. I doubt whether Lord Drummond, when he sat silent in the Cabinet, had realised those fears which weighed upon him so strongly afterwards, or had then foreseen that the adoption of a nearly similar franchise for the counties and boroughs must inevitably lead to the American system of numerical representation. But when time had been given him, and he and Sir Timothy had talked it all over, the mind of no man was ever clearer than that of Lord Drummond.

  The Prime Minister, with the diligence which belonged to him, had mastered all the details of Mr. Monk’s Bill before it was discussed in the Cabinet, and yet he found that his assistance was hardly needed in the absolute preparation. Had they allowed him he would have done it all himself. But it was assumed that he would not trouble himself with such work, and he perceived that he was not wanted. Nothing of moment was settled without a reference to him. He required that everything should be explained as it went on, down to the extension of every borough boundary; but he knew that he was not doing it himself, and that Mr. Monk and Constitution Charlie had the prize between them.

  Nor did he dare to ask Mr. Monk what would be the fate of the Bill. To devote all one’s time and mind and industry to a measure which one knows will fall to the ground must be sad. Work under such circumstances must be very grievous. But such is often the fate of statesmen. Whether Mr. Monk laboured under such a conviction the Prime Minister did not know, though he saw his friend and colleague almost daily. In truth no one dared to tell him exactly what he thought. Even the old Duke had become partially reticent, and taken himself off to his own woods at Long Royston. To Phineas Finn the Prime Minister would sometimes say a word, but would say even that timidly. On any abstract question, such as that which he had discussed when they had been walking together, he could talk freely enough. But on the matter of the day, those affairs which were of infinite importance to himself, and on which one would suppose he would take delight in speaking to a trusted colleague, he could not bring himself to be open. “It must be a long Bill, I suppose?” he said to Phineas one day.

  “I’m afraid so, Duke. It will run, I fear, to over a hundred clauses.”

  “It will take you the best part of the Session to get through it?”

  “If we can have the second reading early in March, we hope to send it up to you in the first week in June. That will give us ample time.”

  “Yes; — yes. I suppose so.” But he did not dare to ask Phineas Finn whether he thought that the House of Commons would assent to the second reading. It was known at this time that the Prime Minister was painfully anxious as to the fate of the Ministry. It seemed to be but the other day that everybody connected with the Government was living in fear lest he should resign. His threats in that direction had always been made to his old friend the Duke of St. Bungay; but a great man cannot whisper his thoughts without having them carried in the air. In all the clubs it had been declared that that was the rock by which the Coalition would probably be wrecked. The newspapers had repeated the story, and the “People’s Banner” had assured the world that if it were so the Duke of Omnium would thus do for his country the only good service which it was possible that he should render it. That was at the time when Sir Orlando was mutinous and when Lopez had destroyed himself. But now no such threat came from the Duke, and the “People’s Banner” was already accusing him of clinging to power with pertinacious and unconstitutional tenacity. Had not Sir Orlando deserted him? Was it not well known that Lord Drummond and Sir Timothy Beeswax were only restrained from doing so by a mistaken loyalty?

  Everybody came up to town, Mr. Monk having his Bill in his pocket, and the Queen’s speech was read, promising the County Suffrage Bill. The address was voted with a very few words from either side. The battle was not to be fought then. Indeed, the state of things was so abnormal that there could hardly be said to be any sides in the House. A stranger in the gallery, not knowing the condition of affairs, would have thought that no minister had for many years commanded so large a majority, as the crowd of members was always on the Government side of the House; but the opposition which Mr. Monk expected would, he knew, come from those who sat around him, behind him, and even at his very elbow. About a week after Parliament met the Bill was read for the first time, and the second reading was appointed for an early day in March.

  The Duke had suggested to Mr. Monk the expedience of some further delay, giving as his reason the necessity of getting through certain routine work, should the rejection of the Bill create the confusion of a resignation. No one who knew the Duke could ever suspect him of giving a false reason. But it seemed that in this the Prime Minister was allowing himself to be harassed by fears of the future. Mr. Monk thought that any delay would be injurious and open to suspicion after what had been said and done, and was urgent in his arguments. The Duke gave way, but he did so almost sullenly, signifying his acquiescence with haughty silence. “I am sorry,” said Mr. Monk, “to differ from your Grace, but my opinion in the matter is so strong that I do not dare to abstain from expressing it.” The Duke bowed again and smiled. He had intended that the smile should be acquiescent, but it had been as cold as steel. He knew that he was misbehaving, but was not sufficiently master of his own manner to be gracious. He told himself on the spot, — though he was quite wrong in so telling himself, — that he had now made an enemy also of Mr. Monk, and through Mr. Monk of Phineas Finn. And now he felt that he had no friend left in whom to trust, — for the old Duke had become cold and indifferent. The old Duke, he thought, was tired of his work and anxious for rest. It was the old Duke who had brought him into this hornets’ nest; had fixed upon his back the unwilling load; had compelled him to assume the place which now to lose would be a disgrace, — and the old Duke was now deserting him! He was sore all over, angry with every one, ungracious even with his private Secretary and his wife, — and especially miserable because he was thoroughly aware of his own faults. And yet, through it all, there was present to him a desire to fight on to the very last. Let his colleagues do what they might, and say what they might, he would remain Prime Minister of England as long as he was supported by a majority of the House of Commons.

  “I do not know any greater step than this,” Phineas said to him pleasantly one day, speaking of their new measure, “towards that millennium of which we were talking at Matching, if we can only accomplish it.”

  “Those moral speculations, Mr. Finn,” he said, “will hardly bear the wear and tear of real life.” The words of the answer, combined with the manner in which they were spoken, were stern and almost uncivil. Phineas, at any rate, had done nothing to offend him. The Duke paused, trying to find some expression by which he might correct the injury he had done; but, not finding any, passed on without further speech. Phineas shrugged his shoulders and went his way, telling himself that he had received one further injunction not to put his trust in princes.

  “We shall be beaten, certainly,” said Mr. Monk to Phineas, not long afterwards.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I smell it in the air. I see it in men’s faces.”

  “And yet it’s a moderate Bill. They’ll have to pass something stronger before long if they throw it out now.”

  “It’s not the Bill that they’ll reject, but us. We have served our turn, and we ought to go.”

  “The House is tired of the Duke?”

  “The Duke is so good a man that I hardly like to admit even that; — but I fear it is so. He is fretful and he makes enemies.”

  “I sometimes think that he is ill.”

  “He is ill at ease and sick at heart. He cannot hide his chagrin, and then is doubly wretched because he has betrayed it. I do not know that I ever respected and, at the same time, pitied a man more thoroughly.”

 
; “He snubbed me awfully yesterday,” said Phineas, laughing.

  “He cannot help himself. He snubs me at every word that he speaks, and yet I believe that he is most anxious to be civil to me. His ministry has been of great service to the country. For myself, I shall never regret having joined it. But I think that to him it has been a continual sorrow.”

  The system on which the Duchess had commenced her career as wife of the Prime Minister had now been completely abandoned. In the first place, she had herself become so weary of it that she had been unable to continue the exertion. She had, too, become in some degree ashamed of her failures. The names of Major Pountney and Mr. Lopez were not now pleasant to her ears, nor did she look back with satisfaction on the courtesies she had lavished on Sir Orlando or the smiles she had given to Sir Timothy Beeswax. “I’ve known a good many vulgar people in my time,” she said one day to Mrs. Finn, “but none ever so vulgar as our ministerial supporters. You don’t remember Mr. Bott, my dear. He was before your time; — one of the arithmetical men, and a great friend of Plantagenet’s. He was very bad, but there have come up worse since him. Sometimes, I think, I like a little vulgarity for a change; but, upon my honour, when we get rid of all this it will be a pleasure to go back to ladies and gentlemen.” This the Duchess said in her extreme bitterness.

  “It seems to me that you have pretty well got rid of ‘all this’ already.”

  “But I haven’t got anybody else in their place. I have almost made up my mind not to ask any one into the house for the next twelve months. I used to think that nothing would ever knock me up, but now I feel that I’m almost done for. I hardly dare open my mouth to Plantagenet. The Duke of St. Bungay has cut me. Mr. Monk looks as ominous as an owl; and your husband hasn’t a word to say left. Barrington Erle hides his face and passes by when he sees me. Mr. Rattler did try to comfort me the other day by saying that everything was at sixes and sevens, and I really took it almost as a compliment to be spoken to. Don’t you think Plantagenet is ill?”