“Very well. Everett ought to be a happy man.”
“No doubt he will be, — when he settles down to something. Everything will come right for him. With some people things seem to go smooth; don’t they? They have not hitherto gone smoothly with you and me, Emily.”
“You are prosperous. You have everything before you that a man can wish, if only you will allow yourself to think so. Your profession is successful, and you are in Parliament, and everyone likes you.”
“It is all nothing.”
“That is the general discontent of the world.”
“It is all nothing, — unless I have you too. Remember that I had said so long before I was successful, when I did not dream of Parliament; before we had heard of the name of the man who came between me and my happiness. I think I am entitled to be believed when I say so. I think I know my own mind. There are many men who would have been changed by the episode of such a marriage.”
“You ought to have been changed by it, — and by its result.”
“It had no such effect. Here I am, after it all, telling you as I used to tell you before, that I have to look to you for my happiness.”
“You should be ashamed to confess it, Arthur.”
“Never; — not to you, nor to all the world. I know what it has been. I know you are not now as you were then. You have been his wife, and are now his widow.”
“That should be enough.”
“But, such as you are, my happiness is in your hands. If it were not so, do you think that all my family as well as yours would join in wishing that you may become my wife? There is nothing to conceal. When you married that man you know what my mother thought of it; and what John thought of it, and his wife. They had wanted you to be my wife; and they want it now, — because they are anxious for my happiness. And your father wishes it, and your brother wishes it, — because they trust me, and think that I should be a good husband to you.”
“Good!” she exclaimed, hardly knowing what she meant by repeating the word.
“After that you have no right to set yourself up to judge what may be best for my happiness. They who know how to judge are all united. Whatever you may have been, they believe that it will be good for me that you should now be my wife. After that you must talk about me no longer, unless you will talk of my wishes.”
“Do you think I am not anxious for your happiness?”
“I do not know; — but I shall find out in time. That is what I have to say about myself. And as to you, is it not much the same? I know you love me. Whatever the feeling was that overcame you as to that other man, — it has gone. I cannot now stop to be tender and soft in my words. The thing to be said is too serious to me. And every friend you have wants you to marry the man you love and to put an end to the desolation which you have brought on yourself. There is not one among us all, Fletchers and Whartons, whose comfort does not more or less depend on your sacrificing the luxury of your own woe.”
“Luxury!”
“Yes; luxury. No man ever had a right to say more positively to a woman that it was her duty to marry him, than I have to you. And I do say it. I say it on behalf of all of us, that it is your duty. I won’t talk of my own love now, because you know it. You cannot doubt it. I won’t even talk of yours, because I am sure of it. But I say that it is your duty to give up drowning us all in tears, burying us in desolation. You are one of us, and should do as all of us wish you. If, indeed, you could not love me it would be different. There! I have said what I’ve got to say. You are crying, and I will not take your answer now. I will come to you again to-morrow, and then you shall answer me. But, remember when you do so that the happiness of many people depends on what you say.” Then he left her very suddenly and hurried back to the house by himself.
He had been very rough with her, — had not once attempted to touch her hand or even her arm, had spoken no soft word to her, speaking of his own love as a thing too certain to need further words; and he had declared himself to be so assured of her love that there was no favour for him now to ask, nothing for which he was bound to pray as a lover. All that was past. He had simply declared it to be her duty to marry him, and had told her so with much sternness. He had walked fast, compelling her to accompany him, had frowned at her, and had more than once stamped his foot upon the ground. During the whole interview she had been so near to weeping that she could hardly speak. Once or twice she had almost thought him to be cruel; — but he had forced her to acknowledge to herself that all that he had said was true and unanswerable. Had he pressed her for an answer at the moment she would not have known in what words to couch a refusal. And yet as she made her way alone back to the house she assured herself that she would have refused.
He had given her four-and-twenty hours, and at the end of that time she would be bound to give him her answer, — an answer which must then be final. And as she said this to herself she found that she was admitting a doubt. She hardly knew how not to doubt, knowing, as she did, that all whom she loved were on one side, while on the other was nothing but the stubbornness of her own convictions. But still the conviction was left to her. Over and over again she declared to herself that it was not fit, meaning thereby to assure herself that a higher duty even than that which she owed to her friends, demanded from her that she should be true to her convictions. She met him that day at dinner, but he hardly spoke to her. They sat together in the same room during the evening, but she hardly once heard his voice. It seemed to her that he avoided even looking at her. When they separated for the night he parted from her almost as though they had been strangers. Surely he was angry with her because she was stubborn, — thought evil of her because she would not do as others wished her! She lay awake during the long night thinking of it all. If it might be so! Oh; — if it might be so! If it might be done without utter ruin to her own self-respect as a woman!
In the morning she was down early, — not having anything to say, with no clear purpose as yet before her, — but still with a feeling that perhaps that morning might alter all things for her. He was the latest of the party, not coming in for prayers as did all the others, but taking his seat when the others had half finished their breakfast. As he sat down he gave a general half-uttered greeting to them all, but spoke no special word to any of them. It chanced that his seat was next to hers, but to her he did not address himself at all. Then the meal was over, and the chairs were withdrawn, and the party grouped itself about with vague, uncertain movements, as men and women do before they leave the breakfast table for the work of the day. She meditated her escape, but felt that she could not leave the room before Lady Wharton or Mrs. Fletcher, — who had remained at Wharton to keep her mother company for a while. At last they went; — but then, just as she was escaping, he put his hand upon her and reminded her of her appointment. “I shall be in the hall in a quarter of an hour,” he said. “Will you meet me there?” Then she bowed her head to him and passed on.
She was there at the time named and found him standing by the hall door, waiting for her. His hat was already on his head and his back was almost turned to her. He opened the door, and, allowing her to pass out first, led the way to the shrubbery. He did not speak to her till he had closed behind her the little iron gate which separated the walk from the garden, and then he turned upon her with one word. “Well?” he said. She was silent for a moment, and then he repeated his eager question: “Well; — well?”
“I should disgrace you,” she said, not firmly as before, but whispering the words.
He waited for no other assent. The form of the words told him that he had won the day. In a moment his arms were round her, and her veil was off, and his lips were pressed to hers; — and when she could see his countenance the whole form of his face was altered to her. It was bright as it used to be bright in old days, and he was smiling on her as he used to smile. “My own,” he said; — “my wife — my own!” And she had no longer the power to deny him. “Not yet, Arthur; not yet,” was all that she could say.
CHAPTER LXXX
The Last Meeting at Matching
The ex-Prime Minister did not carry out his purpose of leaving London in the middle of the season and travelling either to Italy or Norway. He was away from London at Whitsuntide longer perhaps than he might have been if still in office, and during this period regarded himself as a man from whose hands all work had been taken, — as one who had been found unfit to carry any longer a burden serviceably; but before June was over he and the Duchess were back in London, and gradually he allowed himself to open his mouth on this or that subject in the House of Lords, — not pitching into everybody all round, as his wife had recommended, but expressing an opinion now and again, generally in support of his friends, with the dignity which should belong to a retired Prime Minister. The Duchess too recovered much of her good temper, — as far at least as the outward show went. One or two who knew her, especially Mrs. Finn, were aware that her hatred and her ideas of revenge were not laid aside; but she went on from day to day anathematizing her special enemies and abstained from reproaching her husband for his pusillanimity. Then came the question as to the autumn. “Let’s have everybody down at Gatherum, just as we had before,” said the Duchess.
The proposition almost took away the Duke’s breath. “Why do you want a crowd, like that?”
“Just to show them that we are not beaten because we are turned out.”
“But, inasmuch as we were turned out, we were beaten. And what has a gathering of people at my private house to do with a political man[oe]uvre? Do you especially want to go to Gatherum?”
“I hate the place. You know I do.”
“Then why should you propose to go there?” He hardly yet knew his wife well enough to understand that the suggestion had been a joke. “If you don’t wish to go abroad — “
“I hate going abroad.”
“Then we’ll remain at Matching. You don’t hate Matching.”
“Ah dear! There are memories there too. But you like it.”
“My books are there.”
“Blue-books,” said the Duchess.
“And there is plenty of room if you wish to have friends.”
“I suppose we must have somebody. You can’t live without your Mentor.”
“You can ask whom you please,” he said almost fretfully.
“Lady Rosina, of course,” suggested the Duchess. Then he turned to the papers before him and wouldn’t say another word. The matter ended in a party much as usual being collected at Matching about the middle of October, — Telemachus having spent the early part of the autumn with Mentor at Long Royston. There might perhaps be a dozen guests in the house, and among them of course were Phineas Finn and his wife. And Mr. Grey was there, having come back from his eastern mission, — whose unfortunate abandonment of his seat at Silverbridge had caused so many troubles, — and Mrs. Grey, who in days now long passed had been almost as necessary to Lady Glencora as was now her later friend Mrs. Finn, — and the Cantrips, and for a short time the St. Bungays. But Lady Rosina De Courcy on this occasion was not present. There were few there whom my patient readers have not seen at Matching before; but among those few was Arthur Fletcher.
“So it is to be,” said the Duchess to the member for Silverbridge one morning. She had by this time become intimate with “her member,” as she would sometimes call him in joke, and had concerned herself much as to his matrimonial prospects.
“Yes, Duchess; it is to be, — unless some unforeseen circumstance should arise.”
“What circumstance?”
“Ladies and gentlemen sometimes do change their minds; — but in this case I do not think it likely.”
“And why ain’t you being married now, Mr. Fletcher?”
“We have agreed to postpone it till next year; — so that we may be quite sure of our own minds.”
“I know you are laughing at me; but nevertheless I am very glad that it is settled. Pray tell her from me that I shall call again as soon as ever she is Mrs. Fletcher, though I don’t think she repaid either of the last two visits I made her.”
“You must make excuses for her, Duchess.”
“Of course. I know. After all she is a most fortunate woman. And as for you, — I regard you as a hero among lovers.”
“I’m getting used to it,” she said one day to Mrs. Finn.
“Of course you’ll get used to it. We get used to anything that chance sends us in a marvellously short time.”
“What I mean is that I can go to bed, and sleep, and get up and eat my meals without missing the sound of the trumpets so much as I did at first. I remember hearing of people who lived in a mill, and couldn’t sleep when the mill stopped. It was like that with me when our mill stopped at first. I had got myself so used to the excitement of it, that I could hardly live without it.”
“You might have all the excitement still, if you pleased. You need not be dead to politics because your husband is not Prime Minister.”
“No; never again, — unless he should come back. If any one had told me ten years ago that I should have taken an interest in this or that man being in the Government, I should have laughed him to scorn. It did not seem possible to me then that I should care what became of such men as Sir Timothy Beeswax and Mr. Roby. But I did get to be anxious about it when Plantagenet was shifted from one office to another.”
“Of course you did. Do you think I am not anxious about Phineas?”
“But when he became Prime Minister, I gave myself up to it altogether. I shall never forget what I felt when he came to me and told me that perhaps it might be so; — but told me also that he would escape from it if it were possible. I was the Lady Macbeth of the occasion all over; — whereas he was so scrupulous, so burdened with conscience! As for me, I would have taken it by any means. Then it was that the old Duke played the part of the three witches to a nicety. Well, there hasn’t been any absolute murder, and I haven’t quite gone mad.”
“Nor need you be afraid, though all the woods of Gatherum should come to Matching.”
“God forbid! I will never see anything of Gatherum again. What annoys me most is, and always was, that he wouldn’t understand what I felt about it; — how proud I was that he should be Prime Minister, how anxious that he should be great and noble in his office; — how I worked for him, and not at all for any pleasure of my own.”
“I think he did feel it.”
“No; — not as I did. At last he liked the power, — or rather feared the disgrace of losing it. But he had no idea of the personal grandeur of the place. He never understood that to be Prime Minister in England is as much as to be an Emperor in France, and much more than being President in America. Oh, how I did labour for him, — and how he did scold me for it with those quiet little stinging words of his! I was vulgar!”
“Is that a quiet word?”
“Yes; — as he used it; — and indiscreet, and ignorant, and stupid. I bore it all, though sometimes I was dying with vexation. Now it’s all over, and here we are as humdrum as any one else. And the Beeswaxes, and the Robys, and the Droughts, and the Pountneys, and the Lopezes, have all passed over the scene! Do you remember that Pountney affair, and how he turned the poor man out of the house?”
“It served him right.”
“It would have served them all right to be turned out, — only they were there for a purpose. I did like it in a way, and it makes me sad to think that the feeling can never come again. Even if they should have him back again, it would be a very lame affair to me then. I can never again rouse myself to the effort of preparing food and lodging for half the Parliament and their wives. I shall never again think that I can help to rule England by coaxing unpleasant men. It is done and gone, and can never come back again.”
Not long after this the Duke took Mr. Monk, who had come down to Matching for a few days, out to the very spot on which he had sat when he indulged himself in lecturing Phineas Finn on Conservatism and Liberalism generally, and then asked the Chancellor of the
Exchequer what he thought of the present state of public affairs. He himself had supported Mr. Gresham’s government, and did not belong to it because he could not at present reconcile himself to filling any office. Mr. Monk did not scruple to say that in his opinion the present legitimate division of parties was preferable to the Coalition which had existed for three years. “In such an arrangement,” said Mr. Monk, “there must always be a certain amount of distrust, and such a feeling is fatal to any great work.”
“I think I distrusted no one till separation came, — and when it did come it was not caused by me.”
“I am not blaming any one now,” said the other; “but men who have been brought up with opinions altogether different, even with different instincts as to politics, who from their mother’s milk have been nourished on codes of thought altogether opposed to each other, cannot work together with confidence even though they may desire the same thing. The very ideas which are sweet as honey to the one are bitter as gall to the other.”
“You think, then, that we made a great mistake?”
“I will not say that,” said Mr. Monk. “There was a difficulty at the time, and that difficulty was overcome. The Government was carried on, and was on the whole respected. History will give you credit for patriotism, patience, and courage. No man could have done it better than you did; — probably no other man of the day so well.”
“But it was not a great part to play?” The Duke in his nervousness, as he said this, could not avoid the use of that questioning tone which requires an answer.
“Great enough to satisfy the heart of a man who has fortified himself against the evil side of ambition. After all, what is it that the Prime Minister of such a country as this should chiefly regard? Is it not the prosperity of the country? It is not often that we want great measures, or new arrangements that shall be vital to the country. Politicians now look for grievances, not because the grievances are heavy, but trusting that the honour of abolishing them may be great. It is the old story of the needy knife-grinder who, if left to himself, would have no grievance of which to complain.”
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