Many of the cares of office the Prime Minister did succeed in shuffling off altogether on to the shoulders of his elder friend. He would not concern himself with the appointment of ladies, about whom he said he knew nothing, and as to whose fitness and claims he professed himself to be as ignorant as the office messenger. The offers were of course made in the usual form, as though coming direct from the Queen, through the Prime Minister; — but the selections were in truth effected by the old Duke in council with — an illustrious personage. The matter affected our Duke, — only in so far that he could not get out of his mind that strange application from his own wife. “That she should have even dreamed of it!” he would say to himself, not yet having acquired sufficient experience of his fellow creatures to be aware how wonderfully temptations will affect even those who appear to be least subject to them. The town horse, used to gaudy trappings, no doubt despises the work of his country brother; but yet, now and again, there comes upon him a sudden desire to plough. The desire for ploughing had come upon the Duchess, but the Duke could not understand it.
He perceived, however, in spite of the multiplicity of his official work, that his refusal sat heavily on his wife’s breast, and that, though she spoke no further word, she brooded over her injury. And his heart was sad within him when he thought that he had vexed her, — loving her as he did with all his heart, but with a heart that was never demonstrative. When she was unhappy he was miserable, though he would hardly know the cause of his misery. Her ridicule and raillery he could bear, though they stung him; but her sorrow, if ever she were sorrowful, or her sullenness, if ever she were sullen, upset him altogether. He was in truth so soft of heart that he could not bear the discomfort of the one person in the world who seemed to him to be near to him. He had expressly asked her for her sympathy in the business he had on hand, — thereby going much beyond his usual coldness of manner. She, with an eagerness which might have been expected from her, had promised that she would slave for him, if slavery were necessary. Then she had made her request, had been refused, and was now moody. “The Duchess of –––– is to be Mistress of the Robes,” he said to her one day. He had gone to her, up to her own room, before he dressed for dinner, having devoted much more time than as Prime Minister he ought to have done to a resolution that he would make things straight with her, and to the best way of doing it.
“So I am told. She ought to know her way about the place, as I remember she was at the same work when I was a girl of eleven.”
“That’s not so very long ago, Cora.”
“Silverbridge is older now than I was then, and I think that makes it a very long time ago.” Lord Silverbridge was the Duke’s eldest son.
“But what does it matter? If she began her career in the time of George the Fourth, what is it to you?”
“Nothing on earth, — only that she did in truth begin her career in the time of George the Third. I’m sure she’s nearer sixty than fifty.”
“I’m glad to see you remember your dates so well.”
“It’s a pity she should not remember hers in the way she dresses,” said the Duchess.
This was marvellous to him, — that his wife, who as Lady Glencora Palliser had been so conspicuous for a wild disregard of social rules as to be looked upon by many as an enemy of her own class, should be so depressed by not being allowed to be the Queen’s head servant as to descend to personal invective! “I’m afraid,” said he, attempting to smile, “that it won’t come within the compass of my office to effect or even to propose any radical change in her Grace’s apparel. But don’t you think that you and I can afford to ignore all that?”
“I can certainly. She may be an antiquated Eve for me.”
“I hope, Cora, you are not still disappointed because I did not agree with you when you spoke about the place for yourself.”
“Not because you did not agree with me, — but because you did not think me fit to be trusted with any judgment of my own. I don’t know why I’m always to be looked upon as different from other women, — as though I were half a savage.”
“You are what you have made yourself, and I have always rejoiced that you are as you are, fresh, untrammelled, without many prejudices which afflict other ladies, and free from bonds by which they are cramped and confined. Of course such a turn of character is subject to certain dangers of its own.”
“There is no doubt about the dangers. The chances are that when I see her Grace I shall tell her what I think about her.”
“You will I am sure say nothing unkind to a lady who is supposed to be in the place she now fills by my authority. But do not let us quarrel about an old woman.”
“I won’t quarrel with you even about a young one.”
“I cannot be at ease within myself while I think you are resenting my refusal. You do not know how constantly I carry you about with me.”
“You carry a very unnecessary burden then,” she said. But he could tell at once from the altered tone of her voice, and from the light of her eye as he glanced into her face, that her anger about “The Robes” was appeased.
“I have done as you asked about a friend of yours,” he said. This occurred just before the final and perfected list of the new men had appeared in all the newspapers.
“What friend?”
“Mr. Finn is to go to Ireland.”
“Go to Ireland! — How do you mean?”
“It is looked upon as being very great promotion. Indeed I am told that he is considered to be the luckiest man in all the scramble.”
“You don’t mean as Chief Secretary?”
“Yes, I do. He certainly couldn’t go as Lord Lieutenant.”
“But they said that Barrington Erle was going to Ireland.”
“Well; yes. I don’t know that you’d be interested by all the ins and outs of it. But Mr. Erle declined. It seems that Mr. Erle is after all the one man in Parliament modest enough not to consider himself to be fit for any place that can be offered to him.”
“Poor Barrington! He does not like the idea of crossing the Channel so often. I quite sympathise with him. And so Phineas is to be Secretary for Ireland! Not in the Cabinet?”
“No; — not in the Cabinet. It is not by any means usual that he should be.”
“That is promotion, and I am glad! Poor Phineas! I hope they won’t murder him, or anything of that kind. They do murder people, you know, sometimes.”
“He’s an Irishman himself.”
“That’s just the reason why they should. He must put up with that of course. I wonder whether she’ll like going. They’ll be able to spend money, which they always like, over there. He comes backwards and forwards every week, — doesn’t he?”
“Not quite that, I believe.”
“I shall miss her, if she has to stay away long. I know you don’t like her.”
“I do like her. She has always behaved well, both to me and to my uncle.”
“She was an angel to him, — and to you too, if you only knew it. I dare say you’re sending him to Ireland so as to get her away from me.” This she said with a smile, as though not meaning it altogether, but yet half meaning it.
“I have asked him to undertake the office,” said the Duke solemnly, “because I am told that he is fit for it. But I did have some pleasure in proposing it to him because I thought that it would please you.”
“It does please me, and I won’t be cross any more, and the Duchess of –––– may wear her clothes just as she pleases, or go without them. And as for Mrs. Finn, I don’t see why she should be with him always when he goes. You can quite understand how necessary she is to me. But she is in truth the only woman in London to whom I can say what I think. And it is a comfort, you know, to have some one.”
In this way the domestic peace of the Prime Minister was readjusted, and that sympathy and co-operation for which he had first asked was accorded to him. It may be a question whether on the whole the Duchess did not work harder than he did. She did not at first dare to e
xpound to him those grand ideas which she had conceived in regard to magnificence and hospitality. She said nothing of any extraordinary expenditure of money. But she set herself to work after her own fashion, making to him suggestions as to dinners and evening receptions, to which he objected only on the score of time. “You must eat your dinner somewhere,” she said, “and you need only come in just before we sit down, and go into your own room if you please without coming upstairs at all. I can at any rate do that part of it for you.” And she did do that part of it with marvellous energy all through the month of May, — so that by the end of the month, within six weeks of the time at which she first heard of the Coalition Ministry, all the world had begun to talk of the Prime Minister’s dinners, and of the receptions given by the Prime Minister’s wife.
CHAPTER IX
Mrs. Dick’s Dinner Party. — No. I
Our readers must not forget the troubles of poor Emily Wharton amidst the gorgeous festivities of the new Prime Minister. Throughout April and May she did not see Ferdinand Lopez. It may be remembered that on the night when the matter was discussed between her and her father, she promised him that she would not do so without his permission, — saying, however, at the same time very openly that her happiness depended on such permission being given to her. For two or three weeks not a word further was said between her and her father on the subject, and he had endeavoured to banish the subject from his mind, — feeling no doubt that if nothing further were ever said it would be so much the better. But then his daughter referred to the matter, — very plainly, with a simple question, and without disguise of her own feeling, but still in a manner which he could not bring himself to rebuke. “Aunt Harriet has asked me once or twice to go there of an evening, when you have been out. I have declined because I thought Mr. Lopez would be there. Must I tell her that I am not to meet Mr. Lopez, papa?”
“If she has him there on purpose to throw him in your way, I shall think very badly of her.”
“But he has been in the habit of being there, papa. Of course if you are decided about this, it is better that I should not see him.”
“Did I not tell you that I was decided?”
“You said you would make some further inquiry and speak to me again.” Now Mr. Wharton had made inquiry, but had learned nothing to reassure himself; — neither had he been able to learn any fact, putting his finger on which he could point out to his daughter clearly that the marriage would be unsuitable for her. Of the man’s ability and position, as certainly also of his manners, the world at large seemed to speak well. He had been blackballed at two clubs, but apparently without any defined reason. He lived as though he possessed a handsome income, and yet was in no degree fast or flashy. He was supposed to be an intimate friend of Mr. Mills Happerton, one of the partners in the world-famous commercial house of Hunky and Sons, which dealt in millions. Indeed there had been at one time a rumour that he was going to be taken into the house of Hunky and Sons as a junior partner. It was evident that many people had been favourably impressed by his outward demeanour, by his mode of talk, and by his way of living. But no one knew anything about him. With regard to his material position Mr. Wharton could of course ask direct questions if he pleased, and require evidence as to alleged property. But he felt that by doing so he would abandon his right to object to the man as being a Portuguese stranger, and he did not wish to have Ferdinand Lopez as a son-in-law, even though he should be a partner in Hunky and Sons, and able to maintain a gorgeous palace at South Kensington.
“I have made inquiry.”
“Well, papa?”
“I don’t know anything about him. Nobody knows anything about him.”
“Could you not ask himself anything you want to know? If I might see him I would ask him.”
“That would not do at all.”
“It comes to this, papa, that I am to sever myself from a man to whom I am attached, and whom you must admit that I have been allowed to meet from day to day with no caution that his intimacy was unpleasant to you, because he is called — Lopez.”
“It isn’t that at all. There are English people of that name; but he isn’t an Englishman.”
“Of course, if you say so, papa, it must be so. I have told Aunt Harriet that I consider myself to be prohibited from meeting Mr. Lopez by what you have said; but I think, papa, you are a little — cruel to me.”
“Cruel to you!” said Mr. Wharton, almost bursting into tears.
“I am as ready to obey as a child; — but, not being a child, I think I ought to have a reason.” To this Mr. Wharton made no further immediate answer, but pulled his hair, and shuffled his feet about, and then escaped out of the room.
A few days afterwards his sister-in-law attacked him. “Are we to understand, Mr. Wharton, that Emily is not to meet Mr. Lopez again? It makes it very unpleasant, because he has been intimate at our house.”
“I never said a word about her not meeting him. Of course I do not wish that any meeting should be contrived between them.”
“As it stands now it is prejudicial to her. Of course it cannot but be observed, and it is so odd that a young lady should be forbidden to meet a certain man. It looks so unpleasant for her, — as though she had misbehaved herself.”
“I have never thought so for a moment.”
“Of course you have not. How could you have thought so, Mr. Wharton?”
“I say that I never did.”
“What must he think when he knows, — as of course he does know, — that she has been forbidden to meet him? It must make him fancy that he is made very much of. All that is so very bad for a girl! Indeed it is, Mr. Wharton.” Of course there was absolute dishonesty in all this on the part of Mrs. Roby. She was true enough to Emily’s lover, — too true to him; but she was false to Emily’s father. If Emily would have yielded to her she would have arranged meetings at her own house between the lovers altogether in opposition to the father. Nevertheless there was a show of reason about what she said which Mr. Wharton was unable to overcome. And at the same time there was a reality about his girl’s sorrow which overcame him. He had never hitherto consulted any one about anything in his family, having always found his own information and intellect sufficient for his own affairs. But now he felt grievously in want of some pillar, — some female pillar, — on which he could lean. He did not know all Mrs. Roby’s iniquities; but still he felt that she was not the pillar of which he was in need. There was no such pillar for his use, and he was driven to acknowledge to himself that in this distressing position he must be guided by his own strength, and his own lights. He thought it all out as well as he could in his own chamber, allowing his book or his brief to lie idle beside him for many a half-hour. But he was much puzzled both as to the extent of his own authority and the manner in which it should be used. He certainly had not desired his daughter not to meet the man. He could understand that unless some affront had been offered such an edict enforced as to the conduct of a young lady would induce all her acquaintance to suppose that she was either very much in love or else very prone to misbehave herself. He feared, indeed, that she was very much in love, but it would not be prudent to tell her secret to all the world. Perhaps it would be better that she should meet him, — always with the understanding that she was not to accept from him any peculiar attention. If she would be obedient in one particular, she would probably be so in the other; — and, indeed, he did not at all doubt her obedience. She would obey, but would take care to show him that she was made miserable by obeying. He began to foresee that he had a bad time before him.
And then as he still sat idle, thinking of it all, his mind wandered off to another view of the subject. Could he be happy, or even comfortable, if she were unhappy? Of course he endeavoured to convince himself that if he were bold, determined, and dictatorial with her, it would only be in order that her future happiness might be secured. A parent is often bound to disregard the immediate comfort of a child. But then was he sure that he was right? He of course had h
is own way of looking at life, but was it reasonable that he should force his girl to look at things with his eyes? The man was distasteful to him as being unlike his idea of an English gentleman, and as being without those far-reaching fibres and roots by which he thought that the solidity and stability of a human tree should be assured. But the world was changing around him every day. Royalty was marrying out of its degree. Peers’ sons were looking only for money. And, more than that, peers’ daughters were bestowing themselves on Jews and shopkeepers. Had he not better make the usual inquiry about the man’s means, and, if satisfied on that head, let the girl do as she would? Added to all this there was growing on him a feeling that ultimately youth would as usual triumph over age, and that he would be beaten. If that were so, why worry himself, or why worry her?
On the day after Mrs. Roby’s attack upon him he again saw that lady, having on this occasion sent round to ask her to come to him. “I want you to understand that I put no embargo on Emily as to meeting Mr. Lopez. I can trust her fully. I do not wish her to encourage his attentions, but I by no means wish her to avoid him.”
“Am I to tell Emily what you say?”
“I will tell her myself. I think it better to say as much to you, as you seemed to be embarrassed by the fear that they might happen to see each other in your drawing-room.”
“It was rather awkward; — wasn’t it?”
“I have spoken now because you seemed to think so.” His manner to her was not very pleasant, but Mrs. Roby had known him for many years, and did not care very much for his manner. She had an object to gain, and could put up with a good deal for the sake of her object.
“Very well. Then I shall know how to act. But, Mr. Wharton, I must say this, you know Emily has a will of her own, and you must not hold me responsible for anything that may occur.” As soon as he heard this he almost resolved to withdraw the concession he had made; — but he did not do so.
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