The Palliser Novels (446 page)

“But where is to be the end of it?”

“There shall be no end as long as he is Prime Minister. He is the first man in England. Some people would say the first in Europe, — or in the world. A Prince should entertain like a Prince.”

“He need not be always entertaining.”

“Hospitality should run from a man with his wealth and his position, like water from a fountain. As his hand is known to be full, so it should be known to be open. When the delight of his friends is in question he should know nothing of cost. Pearls should drop from him as from a fairy. But I don’t think you understand me.”

“Not when the pearls are to be picked up by Captain Gunners, Lady Glen.”

“I can’t make the men any better, — nor yet the women. They are poor mean creatures. The world is made up of such. I don’t know that Captain Gunner is worse than Sir Orlando Drought or Sir Timothy Beeswax. People seen by the mind are exactly different to things seen by the eye. They grow smaller and smaller as you come nearer down to them, whereas things become bigger. I remember when I used to think that members of the Cabinet were almost gods, and now they seem to be no bigger than the shoeblacks, — only less picturesque. He told me the other day of the time when he gave up going into power for the sake of taking me abroad. Ah me! how much was happening then, — and how much has happened since that! We didn’t know you then.”

“He has been a good husband to you.”

“And I have been a good wife to him! I have never had him for an hour out of my heart since that, or ever for a moment forgotten his interest. I can’t live with him because he shuts himself up reading blue-books, and is always at his office or in the House; — but I would if I could. Am I not doing it all for him? You don’t think that the Captain Gunners are particularly pleasant to me! Think of your life and of mine. You have had lovers.”

“One in my life, — when I was quite entitled to have one.”

“Well; I am Duchess of Omnium, and I am the wife of the Prime Minister, and I had a larger property of my own than any other young woman that ever was born; and I am myself too, — Glencora M’Cluskie that was, and I’ve made for myself a character that I’m not ashamed of. But I’d be the curate’s wife to-morrow, and make puddings, if I could only have my own husband and my own children with me. What’s the use of it all? I like you better than anybody else, but you do nothing but scold me.” Still the parties went on, and the Duchess laboured hard among her guests, and wore her jewels, and stood on her feet all the night, night after night, being civil to one person, bright to a second, confidential to a third, and sarcastic to an unfortunate fourth; — and in the morning she would work hard with her lists, seeing who had come to her and who had stayed away, and arranging who should be asked and who should be omitted.

In the meantime the Duke altogether avoided these things. At first he had been content to show himself, and escape as soon as possible; — but now he was never seen at all in his own house, except at certain heavy dinners. To Richmond he never went at all, and in his own house in town very rarely even passed through the door that led into the reception rooms. He had not time for ordinary society. So said the Duchess. And many, perhaps the majority of those who frequented the house, really believed that his official duties were too onerous to leave him time for conversation. But in truth the hours went heavily with him as he sat alone in his study, sighing for some sweet parliamentary task, and regretting the days in which he was privileged to sit in the House of Commons till two o’clock in the morning, in the hope that he might get a clause or two passed in his Bill for decimal coinage.

It was at the Horns at an afternoon party, given there in the gardens by the Duchess, early in July, that Arthur Fletcher first saw Emily after her marriage, and Lopez after the occurrence in Silverbridge. As it happened he came out upon the lawn close after them, and found them speaking to the Duchess as they passed on. She had put herself out of the way to be civil to Mr. and Mrs. Lopez, feeling that she had in some degree injured him in reference to the election, and had therefore invited both him and his wife on more than one occasion. Arthur Fletcher was there as a young man well known in the world, and as a supporter of the Duke’s Government. The Duchess had taken up Arthur Fletcher, — as she was wont to take up new men, and had personally become tired of Lopez. Of course she had heard of the election, and had been told that Lopez had behaved badly. Of Mr. Lopez she did not know enough to care anything, one way or the other; — but she still encouraged him because she had caused him disappointment. She had now detained them a minute on the terrace before the windows while she said a word, and Arthur Fletcher became one of the little party before he knew whom he was meeting. “I am delighted,” she said, “that you two Silverbridge heroes should meet together here as friends.” It was almost incumbent on her to say something, though it would have been better for her not to have alluded to their heroism. Mrs. Lopez put out her hand, and Arthur Fletcher of course took it. Then the two men bowed slightly to each other, raising their hats. Arthur paused a moment with them, as they passed on from the Duchess, thinking that he would say something in a friendly tone. But he was silenced by the frown on the husband’s face, and was almost constrained to go away without a word. It was very difficult for him even to be silent, as her greeting had been kind. But yet it was impossible for him to ignore the displeasure displayed in the man’s countenance. So he touched his hat, and asking her to remember him affectionately to her father, turned off the path and went away.

“Why did you shake hands with that man?” said Lopez. It was the first time since their marriage that his voice had been that of an angry man and an offended husband.

“Why not, Ferdinand? He and I are very old friends, and we have not quarrelled.”

“You must take up your husband’s friendships and your husband’s quarrels. Did I not tell you that he had insulted you?”

“He never insulted me.”

“Emily, you must allow me to be the judge of that. He insulted you, and then he behaved like a poltroon down at Silverbridge, and I will not have you know him any more. When I say so I suppose that will be enough.” He waited for a reply, but she said nothing. “I ask you to tell me that you will obey me in this.”

“Of course he will not come to my house, nor should I think of going to his, if you disapproved.”

“Going to his house! He is unmarried.”

“Supposing he had a wife! Ferdinand, perhaps it will be better that you and I should not talk about him.”

“By G––––,” said Lopez, “there shall be no subject on which I will be afraid to talk to my own wife. I insist on your assuring me that you will never speak to him again.”

He had taken her along one of the upper walks because it was desolate, and he could there speak to her, as he thought, without being heard. She had, almost unconsciously, made a faint attempt to lead him down upon the lawn, no doubt feeling averse to private conversation at the moment; but he had persevered, and had resented the little effort. The idea in his mind that she was unwilling to hear him abuse Arthur Fletcher, unwilling to renounce the man, anxious to escape his order for such renunciation, added fuel to his jealousy. It was not enough for him that she had rejected this man and had accepted him. The man had been her lover, and she should be made to denounce the man. It might be necessary for him to control his feelings before old Wharton; — but he knew enough of his wife to be sure that she would not speak evil of him or betray him to her father. Her loyalty to him, which he could understand though not appreciate, enabled him to be a tyrant to her. So now he repeated his order to her, pausing in the path, with a voice unintentionally loud, and frowning down upon her as he spoke. “You must tell me, Emily, that you will never speak to him again.”

She was silent, looking up into his face, not with tremulous eyes, but with infinite woe written in them, had he been able to read the writing. She knew that he was disgracing himself, and yet he was the man whom she loved! “If you bid me not to speak to him, I will not; — but he must know the reason why.”

“He shall know nothing from you. You do not mean to say that you would write to him?”

“Papa must tell him.”

“I will not have it so. In this matter, Emily, I will be master, — as it is fit that I should be. I will not have you talk to your father about Mr. Fletcher.”

“Why not, Ferdinand?”

“Because I have so decided. He is an old family friend. I can understand that, and do not therefore wish to interfere between him and your father. But he has taken upon himself to write an insolent letter to you as my wife, and to interfere in my affairs. As to what should be done between you and him I must be the judge, and not your father.”

“And must I not speak to papa about it?”

“No!”

“Ferdinand, you make too little, I think, of the associations and affections of a whole life.”

“I will hear nothing about affection,” he said angrily.

“You cannot mean that — that — you doubt me?”

“Certainly not. I think too much of myself and too little of him.” It did not occur to him to tell her that he thought too well of her for that. “But the man who has offended me must be held to have offended you also.”

“You might say the same if it were my father.”

He paused at this, but only for a moment. “Certainly I might. It is not probable, but no doubt I might do so. If your father were to quarrel with me, you would not, I suppose, hesitate between us?”

“Nothing on earth could divide me from you.”

“Nor me from you. In this very matter I am only taking your part, if you did but know it.” They had now passed on, and had met other persons, having made their way through a little shrubbery on to a further lawn; and she had hoped, as they were surrounded by people, that he would allow the matter to drop. She had been unable as yet to make up her mind as to what she would say if he pressed her hard. But if it could be passed by, — if nothing more were demanded from her, — she would endeavour to forget it all, saying to herself that it had come from sudden passion. But he was too resolute for such a termination as that, and too keenly alive to the expediency of making her thoroughly subject to him. So he turned her round and took her back through the shrubbery, and in the middle of it stopped her again and renewed his demand. “Promise me that you will not speak again to Mr. Fletcher.”

“Then I must tell papa.”

“No; — you shall tell him nothing.”

“Ferdinand, if you exact a promise from me that I will not speak to Mr. Fletcher or bow to him should circumstances bring us together as they did just now, I must explain to my father why I have done so.”

“You will wilfully disobey me?”

“In that I must.” He glared at her, almost as though he were going to strike her, but she bore his look without flinching. “I have left all my old friends, Ferdinand, and have given myself heart and soul to you. No woman did so with a truer love or more devoted intention of doing her duty to her husband. Your affairs shall be my affairs.”

“Well; yes; rather.”

She was endeavouring to assure him of her truth, but could understand the sneer which was conveyed in his acknowledgement. “But you cannot, nor can I for your sake, abolish the things which have been.”

“I wish to abolish nothing that has been. I speak of the future.”

“Between our family and that of Mr. Fletcher there has been old friendship which is still very dear to my father, — the memory of which is still very dear to me. At your request I am willing to put all that aside from me. There is no reason why I should ever see any of the Fletchers again. Our lives will be apart. Should we meet our greeting would be very slight. The separation can be effected without words. But if you demand an absolute promise, — I must tell my father.”

“We will go home at once,” he said instantly, and aloud. And home they went, back to London, without exchanging a word on the journey. He was absolutely black with rage, and she was content to remain silent. The promise was not given, nor, indeed, was it exacted under the conditions which the wife had imposed upon it. He was most desirous to make her subject to his will in all things, and quite prepared to exercise tyranny over her to any extent, — so that her father should know nothing of it. He could not afford to quarrel with Mr. Wharton. “You had better go to bed,” he said, when he got her back to town; — and she went, if not to bed, at any rate into her own room.

“He is a horrid man. He came here and quarrelled with the other man in my house, or rather down at Richmond, and made a fool of himself, and then quarrelled with his wife and took her away. What fools, what asses, what horrors men are! How impossible it is to be civil and gracious without getting into a mess. I am tempted to say that I will never know anybody any more.” Such was the complaint made by the Duchess to Mrs. Finn a few days after the Richmond party, and from this it was evident that the latter affair had not passed without notice.

“Did he make a noise about it?” asked Mrs. Finn.

“There was not a row, but there was enough of a quarrel to be visible and audible. He walked about and talked loud to the poor woman. Of course it was my own fault. But the man was clever and I liked him, and people told me that he was of the right sort.”

“The Duke heard of it?”

“No; — and I hope he won’t. It would be such a triumph for him, after all the fuss at Silverbridge. But he never hears of anything. If two men fought a duel in his own dining-room he would be the last man in London to know it.”

“Then say nothing about it, and don’t ask the men any more.”

“You may be sure I won’t ask the man with the wife any more. The other man is in Parliament and can’t be thrown over so easily — and it wasn’t his fault. But I’m getting so sick of it all! I’m told that Sir Orlando has complained to Plantagenet that he isn’t asked to the dinners.”

“Impossible!”

“Don’t you mention it, but he has. Warburton has told me so.” Warburton was one of the Duke’s private secretaries.