CHAPTER 57 THE EXPLINATION Mr. Monk had been altogether unable to decipher the duke's purpose of the question he had asked. About an hour afterwards they walked down to the house together, Mr. Monk having been kept at his office. "'I hope I was not a little short with you just now,' said the duke. "'I did not find it out,' said Mr. Monk, smiling. "'You read what was in the papers, and you may imagine that it is of a nature to irritate a man. I knew that no one could answer my question so correctly as you, and therefore I was a little eager to keep directly to the question. It occurred to me afterwards that I had been, perhaps, uncourteous.' "'Not at all, duke. If I was, your goodness will excuse an irritated man. If a question were asked about this in the House of Commons, who would be the best man to answer it? Would you do it?' Mr. Monk considered a while. I think he said that Mr. Finn would do it with a better grace. Of course I will do it, if you wish it, but he has tacked in such matters, and it is known that his wife is much regarded by her grace. "'I will not have the duchess's name mentioned,' said the duke, turning short upon his companion. "'I did not allude to that, but I thought that the intimacy which existed might make it pleasant to you to employ Mr. Finn as the exponent of your wishes. I have the greatest confidence in Mr. Finn, certainly, and on most friendly personal terms with him. It shall be so, if I decide on answering any question in your house, on a matter so purely personal to myself. I would suggest that you should have the question asked in a friendly way. Get some independent member, such as Mr. Beverly, or Sir James Deering, to ask it. The matter would then be brought forward in no carping spirit, and you would be enabled through Mr. Finn to set the matter at rest. You have probably spoken to the duke about it. I have mentioned it to him. Is not that what he would recommend? The old duke had recommended that the entire truth should be told, and that the duchess's operation should be made public. Here was our poor prime minister's great difficulty. He and his mentor were at variants. His mentor was advising that the real naked truth should be told, whereas Telemachus was intent upon keeping the name of the actual culprit in the background. I will think it all over, said the prime minister, as the two parted company at the palace yard. That evening he spoke to Lord Cantrip on the subject. Though the matter was so odious to him, he could not keep his mind from it for a moment. Had Lord Cantrip seen the article in the people's banner? Lord Cantrip, like Mr. Monk, declared that the paper in question did not constitute part of his usual morning's recreation. I won't ask you to read it, said the duke, but it contains a very bitter attack upon me, the bitterest that has yet been made. I suppose I ought to notice the matter. If I were you, said Lord Cantrip, I should put myself into the hands of the duke of St. Bungie, and do exactly what he advises. There is no man in England know so well as he does what should be done in such a case as this. The prime minister frowned and said nothing. My dear duke, continued Lord Cantrip, I can give you no other advice. Who is there that has your personal interest and your honor at heart so entirely as his grace, and what man can be a more sagacious or more experienced advisor? I was thinking that you might ask a question about it in our house. I? You would do it for me in a manner that would be free from all offence. If I did it at all, I should certainly strive to do that. But it has never occurred to me that you would make such a suggestion. Would you give me a few moments to think about it? I couldn't do it, Lord Cantrip said afterwards. By taking such a step, even at your request, I should certainly express the opinion that the matter was one on which Parliament was entitled to expect that you should make an explanation. But my own opinion is that Parliament has no business to meddle in the matter. I do not think that every action of a minister's life should be made a matter of inquiry, because the newspaper may choose to make illusions to it. At any rate, if any word is said about it, it should, I think, be said in the other house. The Duke of St. Bungie thinks that something should be said. I could not myself consent even to appear to desire information on a matter so entirely personal to yourself. The Duke bowed and smiled with a cold, glittering, uncomfortable smile which would sometimes cross his face when he was not pleased, and no more was then set upon the subject. Attempts were made to have the question asked in a far different spirit by some hostile member of the House of Commons. Sir Orlando Drout was sounded, and he for a while did give ear to the suggestion. But, as he came to have the matter full before him, he could not do it. The Duke had spurned his advice as a minister, and had refused to sanction a measure which he, as head of a branch of government, had proposed. The Duke had so offended him that he conceived himself bound to regard the Duke as his enemy. But he knew, and he could not escape from the knowledge, that England did not contain a more honorable man than the Duke. He was delighted that the Duke should be vexed and thwarted, and called ill names in the matter. To be gratified at this discomforture of his enemy was in the nature of parliamentary opposition. Any blow that might weaken his opponent was a blow in his favour. But this was a blow which he could not strike with his own hands. There were things in parliamentary tactics which even so Orlando could not do. Arthur Fletcher was also asked to undertake the task. He was the successful candidate, the man who had opposed Lopez, and who was declared in the people's banner to have emancipated that borough by his noble conduct from the tyranny of the House of Palliser. And it was thought that he might like an opportunity of making himself known in the House. But he was simply indignant when the suggestion was made to him. What is it to me, he said, who paid the Blaggard's expenses? This went on for some weeks after Parliament had met, and for some days even after the article in which direct allusion was made to the Duchess. The Prime Minister could not be got the consent that no notice should be taken of the matter, let the papers or the public say what they would, nor could he be induced to let the matter be handled in the manner proposed by the elder Duke. And during this time he was in such a fever that those about him felt that something must be done. Mr. Monk suggested that if everybody held his tongue, meaning all the Duke's friends, the thing would wear itself out. But it was apparent to those who were nearest to the minister, to Mr. Warburton, for instance, and the Duke of St. Bungie, that the man himself would be worn out first. The happy possessor of thick skin can hardly understand how one not so blessed may be hurt by the thong of a little whip. At last the matter was arranged. At the instigation of Mr. Monk, Sir James Dearing, who was really the father of the house, an independent member, but one who generally voted with the coalition, consented to ask the question in the House of Commons. And Phineas Finn was instructed by the Duke as to the answer that was to be given. The Duke of Omnium, in giving these instructions, made a mystery of the matter, which he by no means himself intended. But he was so sore that he could not be simple in what he said. Mr. Finn, he said, you must promise me this, that the name of the Duchess shall not be mentioned. Certainly not by me, if you tell me that I am not to mention it. No one else can do so. The matter will take the form of a simple question, and though the conduct of a minister may no doubt be made the subject of debate, and it is not improbable that my conduct may do so at this instance, it is, I think, impossible that any member should make an allusion to my wife. The privilege or power of returning a member for the borough has undoubtedly been exercised by our family, since, as well as previous to both reform bills, at the last election I thought it right to abandon that privilege, and notified to those about me by intention. But that which a man has the power of doing he could not always do without the interference of those around him. There was a misconception, and among my adherence, there were some who injudiciously advised Mr. Lopez to stand on my interest. But he did not get my interest and was beaten, and therefore when he asked me for the money which he had spent, I paid it to him. That is all. I think the House can hardly avoid to see that my effort was made to discontinue an unconstitutional proceeding. So James Deering asked the question. He trusted, he said, that the House would not think that the question of which he had given notice and which he was about to ask was instigated by any personal desire on his part to inquire into the conduct of the Prime Minister. He was one who believed that the Duke of Omnium was as little likely as any man in England to offend by unconstitutional practice on his own part. But a great deal had been talked and written lately about the late election at Silverbridge, and there were those who thought, and he was one of them, that something should be said to stop the mouths of Cavalers. With this object he would ask the right honorable gentleman who led the House and who was perhaps first in standing among the noble Duke's colleagues in that House, whether the noble Duke was prepared to have any statement on the subject made. The House was full to the very corners of the galleries. Of course it was known to everybody that the question was to be asked and to be answered. There were some who thought that the matter was so serious that the Prime Minister could not get over it. Others had heard in the clubs that Lady Glen, as the Duchess was still called, was to be made the scapegoat. Men of all classes were open-mouthed in their denunciation of the meanness of Lopez, though no one but Mr. Wharton knew half his villainy, as he alone knew that the expenses had been paid twice over. In one corner of the reporter's gallery sat Mr. Slide, pencil in hand, prepared to revert to his old work on so momentous an occasion. It was a great day for him. He, by his own unassisted energy, had brought a Prime Minister to book and had created all this turmoil. It might be his happy lot to be the means of turning the Prime Minister out of office. It was he who had watched over the nation. The Duchess had been most anxious to be present, but had not ventured to come without asking her husband's leave, which he had most peremptorily refused to give. I cannot understand, Glencora, how you can suggest such a thing, he had said. You make so much of everything, she had replied petulantly, but she had remained at home. The lady's gallery was however quite full. Mrs. Finn was there, of course, anxious not only for her friend, but eager to hear how her husband would acquit himself in his task. The wives and daughters of all the ministers were there, excepting the wife of the Prime Minister. There never had been, in the memory of them all, a matter that was so interesting to them, for it was the only matter they remembered in which a woman's conduct might probably be called in question in the House of Commons. And the seats appropriated to Pierce were so crammed that above a dozen gray-headed old lords was standing in the passage which divides them from common strangers. After all, it was not, in truth, much of an affair. A very little man indeed had culminated the conduct of a minister of the Crown till it had been thought well that the minister should defend himself. No one really believed that the Duke had committed any great offence. At the worst it was no more than an indiscretion, which was noticeable only because the Prime Minister should never be indiscreet. Had the taxation of the whole country for the next year been in dispute, there would have been no such interest felt. Had the welfare of the Indian Empire occupied the House, the House would have been empty. But the hope that a certain woman's name would have to be mentioned crammed it from the floor to the ceiling. The reader need not be told that that name was not mentioned. Our old friend Phineas, on rising to his legs, first apologized for doing so in place of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. But perhaps the House would accept a statement from him, as the noble Duke at the head of the Government had asked him to make it. Then he made his statement. Perhaps, he said, no falser accusation than this has ever been brought forward against a minister of the Crown, for it specially charged his noble friend with resorting to the employment of unconstitutional practices to bolster up his parliamentary support, whereas it was known by everybody that there would have been no matter for accusation at all, had not the Duke of his own motion abandoned a recognized privilege, because in his opinion the exercise of that privilege was opposed to the spirit of the Constitution. Had the noble Duke simply nominated a candidate, as candidates had been nominated at Silver Bridge for centuries past, that candidate would have been returned with absolute certainty, and there would have been no words spoken on the subject. It was not perhaps for him who had the honour of serving under his grace, and who, as being part of his grace's Government, was for the time won with his grace, to expatiated length on the nobility of the sacrifice made here. But they all knew there at what rate was valued a seat in the House. Thank God that privilege could not now be rated at any money price. It could not be bought and sold. But this privilege, which his noble friend had so magnanimously resigned from purely patriotic motives, was, he believed, still in existence, and he would ask those few who were still in the happy, or perhaps he had better say, in the envied position of being able to send their friends to the House, what was their estimation of the conduct of the Duke of this matter? It might be that there were one or two such present, and who now heard him, or perhaps one or two who owed their seats to the exercise of such a privilege. They might marvel at the magnitude of the surrender. They might even question the sagacity of the man who could abandon so much without a price. But he hardly thought that even they would regard it as unconstitutional. This was what the Prime Minister had done, acting not as Prime Minister, but as an English nobleman in the management of his own property and privileges, and now he would come to the gist of the accusation made, in making which the thing which the Duke had really done had been altogether ignored. When the vacancy had been declared by the acceptance of the children hundreds, by a gentleman whose absence from the House they all regretted, the Duke had signified to his agents his intention of retiring altogether from the exercise of any privilege or power in the matter. But the Duke was then, as he was also now, and would, it was to be hoped, long continue to be Prime Minister of England. He need hardly remind gentlemen in that House that the Prime Minister was not in a position to devote his undivided time to the management of his own property, or even to the interests of the borough of Silverbridge, that his grace had been earnest in his instructions to his agents the sequel fully proved, but that earnestness his agents had misinterpreted. Then there was heard a voice in the House, what agents, and from another voice name them, for there were present some who thought it to be shameful that the excitement of the occasion should be lowered by keeping back all allusion to the Duchess. I have not distinguished, said Phineas, assuming an indignant tone, the honourable gentleman from whom those questions have come, and therefore I have the less compunction in telling them that it is no part of my duty on this occasion to gratify a morbid and an indecent curiosity. Then there was a cry of order and an appeal to the speaker. Certain gentlemen wished to know whether indecent was parliamentary. The speaker with some hesitation expressed his opinion that the word, as then used, was not open to objection from him. He thought it was within the scope of a member's rights to charge another member within decent curiosity. If, said Phineas, rising again to his legs, for he had sat down for a moment, the gentleman who called for a name will rise in his place and repeat the demand. I will recall the word indecent and substitute another or others. I will tell him that he is one who, regardless of the real conduct of the Prime Minister, either as a man or as a servant of the Crown, is only anxious to inflict an unmanly wound in order that he may be gratified by seeing the pain which he inflicts. Then he paused, but as no further question was asked he continued his statement. A candidate had been brought forward, he said, by those interested in the Duke's affairs. A man whom he would not name but who he trusted would never succeed in his ambition to occupy a seat in the house had been brought forward, and certain tradesmen in Silverbridge had been asked to support him as the Duke's nominee. There was no doubt about it. The house perhaps could understand that the local adherents and neighbors of a man so high in rank and wealth as the Duke of Omnium would not gladly see the privileges of their Lord diminished. Perhaps, too, it occurred to them that a Prime Minister could not have his eye everywhere. There would always be worthy men and boroughs who like to exercise some secondhand authority. At any rate it was the case that this candidate was encouraged. Then the Duke had heard it and had put his foot upon the little mutiny and had stamped it out at once. He might perhaps hear, he said, congratulate the house on the acquisition it had received by the failure of that candidate. So far at any rate, he thought, it must be admitted that the Duke had been free from blame, but now he came to the Graveman of the Charge. The Graveman of the Charge is so well known to the reader that the simple account which Phineas gave of it need not be repeated. The Duke had paid the money when asked for it because he felt that the man had been injured by incorrect representations made to him. I need hardly pause to stigmatize the meanness of that application, said Phineas, but I may perhaps conclude by saying that whether the last act done by the Duke of this matter was or was not indiscreet. I shall probably have the house with me when I say that it savors much more strongly of nobility than of indiscretion. When Phineas Finn sat down, no one arose to say another word on the subject. It was afterwards felt that it would only have been graceful had Sir Orlando risen and expressed his opinion that the house had heard the statement just made with perfect satisfaction. But he did not do so, and after a short pause the ordinary business of the day was recommended. Then there was a speedy descent from the galleries, and the ladies trooped out of their cage, and the grey-headed old peers went back to their own chamber, and the members themselves quickly jostled out through the doors, and Mr. Monk was left to explain his proposed alteration in the dog tax to a thin house of seventy or eighty members. The thing was then over, and people were astonished that so great a thing should be over with so little fuss. It really seemed that after Phineas Finn's speech there was nothing more to be said on the matter. Everybody, of course, knew that the Duchess had been the chief of the agents to whom he had eluded, but they had known as much as that before. It was, however, felt by everybody that the matter had been brought to an end. The game, such as it was, had been played out. Perhaps the only person who heard Mr. Finn's speech throughout, and still hoped that the spark could be again fanned into a flame, was Quintus Slide. He went out and wrote another article about the Duchess. If a man was so unable to rule his affairs at home, he was certainly unfit to be prime minister. But even Quintus Slide, as he wrote his article, felt that he was hoping against hope. The charge might be referred to hereafter as one that had never been satisfactorily cleared up. That game is always open to the opponents of a minister. After the lapse of a few months an old accusation can be serviceably used, whether at the time it was proved or disproved, Mr. Slide published his article, but he felt that for the present the Silver Bridge election papers had better be put by among the properties of the people's manner, and brought out, if necessary, for further use at some future time. Mr. Finn, said the Duke, I feel indebted to you for the trouble you have taken. It was only a pleasant duty. I am grateful to you for the manner in which it was performed. This was all the Duke said, and Phineas felt it to be cold. The Duke in truth was grateful, but gratitude with him always failed to exhibit itself readily. From the world at large Phineas Finn received great praise for the manner in which he had performed his task. The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollop, Chapter 58. Quite settled. The abuse, which was now publicly heaped on the name of Ferdinand Lopez, hit the man very hard, but not so hard perhaps as his rejection by Lady Eustis. That was an episode in his life of which even he felt ashamed, and of which he was unable to shake the disgrace from his memory. He had no inner appreciation whatsoever of what was really good or what was really bad in a man's conduct. He did not know that he had done evil in applying to the Duke for the money. He had only meant to attack the Duke, and when the money had come, it had been regarded as justifiable prey. And when, after receiving the Duke's money, he had kept also Mr. Wharton's money. He had justified himself again by reminding himself that Mr. Wharton certainly owed him much more than that. In a sense, he was what is called a gentleman. He knew how to speak, and how to look, how to use a knife and fork, how to dress himself, and how to walk. But he had not the faintest notion of the feelings of a gentleman. He had, however, a very keen conception of the evil of being generally ill spoken of. Even now, though he was making up his mind to leave England for a long term of years, he understood the disadvantage of leaving it under so heavy a cloud, and he understood also that the cloud might possibly impede his going altogether. Even in Coleman Street, they were looking black upon him. And Mr. Hartlepod went so far as to say to Lopez himself that by Jove, he had put his foot in it. He had endeavored to be courageous under his burden, and every day walked into the offices of the mining company, endeavouring to look as though he had committed no fault of which he had to be ashamed. But after the second day, he found that nothing was said to him of the affairs of the company. And on the fourth day, Mr. Hartlepod informed him that the time allowed for paying up his shares had passed by, and that another local manager would be appointed. The time is not over till tomorrow, said Lopez angrily.  You will only waste your time by coming here anymore. He had not once seen Mr. Wharton since the statement made in Parliament, although he had lived in the same house with him. Everett Wharton had come home, and they too had met. But the meeting had been stormy. It seems to me, Lopez, that you were a scoundrel. Everett said to him one day, after having heard the whole story, or rather many stories from his father. This took place not in Manchester Square, but at the club where Everett had endeavored to cut his brother-in-law. It need hardly be said that at this time Lopez was not popular at his club. On the next day, a meeting of the whole club was to be held that the propriety of expelling him might be discussed. But he had resolved that he would not be cowed, that he would still show himself and still defend his conduct. He did not know, however, that Everett Wharton had already made known to the Committee of the Club all the facts of the double payment. He had addressed Everett in that solicitude to which a man should never be reduced of seeking to be recognized by at any rate one acquaintance. And now his brother-in-law had called him a scoundrel in the presence of other men. He raised his arm as though to use the cane in his hands, but he was cowed by the feeling that all there were his adversaries. How dare you use that language to me, he said very weakly. It is the language that I must use if you speak to me. I am your brother-in-law, and that restrains me. Unfortunately you are, and I am living in your father's house. That, again, is a misfortune which it appears difficult to remedy. You have been told to go, and you won't go. Your ingratitude, sir, is marvelous. Who saved your life when you were attacked in the park, and were too drunk to take care of yourself? Who has stood your friend with your close-fisted old father when you have lost money at play that you could not pay? But you are one of those who would turn away from any benefactor in his misfortune. I must certainly turn away from a man who has disgraced himself as you have done, said Everett, leaving the room. Lop has threw himself into an easy chair, and rang the bell loudly for a cup of coffee, and lit a cigar. He had not been turned out of the club as yet, and the servant at any rate was bound to attend to him. That night he waited up for his father-in-law in Manchester Square. He would certainly go to Guatemala now, if it were not too late. He would go, though he were forced to leave his wife behind him, and thus surrender any further hope for money from Mr. Wharton, beyond the sum which he would receive as the price of his banishment. It was true that the fortnight allowed to him by the company was only at an end that day, and that therefore the following morning might be taken as the last day named for the payment of the money. No doubt also, Mr. Wharton's bill at a few days' date would be accepted if that gentleman could not at the moment give a check for so large a sum as was required. And the appointment had been distinctly promised to him, with no other stipulation, that the money required for the shares should be paid. He did not believe in Mr. Hartlepott's threat. It was impossible, he thought, that he should be treated in so infamous a manner, merely because he had had his election expenses repaid him by the Duke of Omnium. He would therefore ask for the money and renounce the society of his wife. As he made this resolve, something like real love returned to his heart, and he became for a while sick with regret. He assured himself that he had loved her, and that he could love her still. But why had she not been true to him? Why had she clung to her father instead of clinging to her husband? Why had she not learned his ways, as a wife is bound to learn the ways of the man she marries? Why had she not helped him in his devices, fallen into his plans, been regarded full of his fortunes, and made herself one with him? There had been present to him at times an idea that if he could take her away with him to that distant country to which he thought to go, and thus remove her from the Eupus influence of her father's roof tree, she would then fall into his views and become his wife indeed. Then he would again be tender to her, again love her, again endeavor to make the world soft to her. But it was too late now for that. He had failed in everything as far as England was concerned, and it was chiefly by her fault that he had failed. He would consent to leave her, but as he thought of it in his solitude, his eyes became moist with regret. In these days, Mr. Wharton never came home till about midnight, and then passed rapidly through the hall to his own room, and in the morning had his breakfast brought to him in the same room, so that he might not even see his son-in-law. His daughter would go to him when at breakfast, and there together for some half hour, they would endeavor to look forward to their future fate. But hitherto they had never been able to look forward in accord, as she still persisted in declaring that if her husband bade her to go with him, she would go. On this night, Lopez sat up at the dining room, and as soon as he heard Mr. Wharton's key in the door, he placed himself in the hall. I wish to speak to you tonight, sir, he said. Would you object to come in for a few moments? Then Mr. Wharton followed him into the room. As we live now, continued Lopez, I have not much opportunity of speaking to you, even on business. Well sir, you can speak now, if you have anything to say. The five thousand pounds you promised me must be paid tomorrow. It is the last day. I promised it only on certain conditions. Had you complied with them, the money would have been paid before this. Just so, the conditions are very hard, Mr. Wharton. It surprises me that such a one as you should think it right to separate a husband from his wife. I think it right, sir, to separate my daughter from such a one as you are. I thought so before, but I think so doubly now. If I can secure your absence in Guatemala by the payment of this money, and if you will give me a document that shall be prepared by Mr. Walker and signed by yourself, assuring your wife that you will not hereafter call upon her to live with you, the money shall be paid. All that will take time, Mr. Wharton. I will not pay up any without it. I can meet you at the office in Coleman Street tomorrow, and doubtless they will accept my written assurance to pay the money as soon as those stipulations shall be complied with. That would disgrace me in the office, Mr. Wharton. And are you not disgraced there already?  His son-in-law stood frowning at him, but did not at the moment say a word. Nevertheless, I will meet you there if he please, at any time that you may name, and if they do not object to employ such a man as their manager, I shall not object on their behalf. To the last, you are hard and cruel to me, said Lopez, but I will meet you in Coleman Street at 11 tomorrow. Then Mr. Wharton left the room, and Lopez was there alone amidst the gloom of the heavy curtains and the dark paper. A London dining room at night is always dark, cavernous and unlovely. The very pictures on the walls lack brightness, and the furniture is black and heavy. This room was large, but old-fashioned and very dark. Here, Lopez walked up and down after Mr. Wharton had left him, trying to think how far fate and how far he himself were responsible for his present misfortunes. No doubt he had begun the world well. His father had been little better than a traveling peddler, but had made some money by selling jewelry and had educated his son. Lopez could on no score impute blame to his father for what had happened to him, and when he thought of the means at his disposal in his early youth, he felt that he had a right to boast of some success. He had worked hard and had won his way upwards, and had almost lodged himself securely among those people with whom it had been his ambition to live. Early in life, he had found himself among those who were called gentlemen and ladies. He had been able to assume their manners and had lived with them on equal terms. When thinking of his past life, he never forgot to remind himself that he had been a guest at the house of the Duke of Omnium. And yet, how was it with him now? He was penniless. He was rejected by his father-in-law. He was feared and, as he thought, detested by his wife. He was expelled from his club. He was cut by his old friends. And he had been told very plainly by the secretary in Coleman Street that his presence there was no longer desired. What should he do with himself if Mr. Wharton's money were now refused, and if the appointment in Guatemala were denied to him? And then he thought of poor Sexty Parker and his family. He was not naturally an ill-natured man, though he could abrade his wife for alluding to Mrs. Parker's misery, declaring that Mrs. Parker must take the rubs of the world just as others took them. Still, the misfortunes which he had brought on her and on her children did add something to the weight of his own misfortunes. If he could not go to Guatemala, what should he do with himself? Where should he go? Thus he walked up and down the room for an hour. Would not a pistol or a razor give him the best solution for all his difficulties? On the following morning he kept his appointment at the office in Coleman Street, as did Mr. Wharton also. The latter was there first by some minutes, and explained to Mr. Hartlepod that he had come there to meet his son-in-law. Mr. Hartlepod was civil but very cold. Mr. Wharton saw at the first glance that the services of Ferdinand Lopez were no longer in request by the Sun One mining company, but he sat down and waited. Now that he was there, however painful the interview would be, he would go through it. At ten minutes past eleven, he made up his mind that he would wait till the half hour, and then go with the fixed resolution that he would never willingly spend another shilling on behalf of that wretched man. But at a quarter past eleven, the wretched man came, swaggering into the office, though it had not hitherto been his custom to swagger. But misfortune masters all but the great men, and upsets the best learned lesson of even a long life. I hope I have not kept you waiting, Mr. Wharton. Well, Hartlepod, how are you today? So this little affair is to be settled at last, and now these shares shall be bought and paid for. Mr. Wharton did not say a word, not even rising from his chair, or greeting his son-in-law by a word. I daresay Mr. Wharton has already explained himself, said Lopez. I don't know that there is any necessity, said Mr. Hartlepod. Well, I suppose it's simple enough, continued Lopez. Mr. Wharton, I believe I am right in saying that you are ready to pay the money at once. Yes, I am ready to pay the money as soon as I am assured that you are on your route to Guatemala. I will not pay a penny till I know that as a fact. Then Mr. Hartlepod rose from his seat and spoke. Gentlemen, he said, the matter within the last few days has assumed a different complexion. As-how, exclaimed Lopez. The directors have changed their mind as to sending out Mr. Lopez as their local manager. The directors intend to appoint another gentleman. I had already acquainted Mr. Lopez with the director's intention. Then the matter has settled, said Mr. Wharton. Quite settled, said Mr. Hartlepod. As a matter, of course, Lopez began to fume and be furious. What? After all that had been done, did the directors mean to go back from their word? After he had been induced to abandon his business in his own country, was he to be thrown over in that way? If the company intended to treat him like that, the company would very soon hear from him. Thank God there were laws in the land. Yesterday was the last day fixed for the payment of the money, said Mr. Hartlepod. Is it at any rate certain that Mr. Lopez is not to go to Guatemala? asked Mr. Wharton. Quite certain, said Mr. Hartlepod. Then Mr. Wharton rose from his chair and quitted the room.  There is no mercy, no friendship, no kindness, no forbearance anywhere. Why am I to be treated in this manner? If you have any complaint to make, said Mr. Hartlepod, you had better write to the directors. I have nothing to do but my duty. By heavens, the director shall hear of it, said Lopez as he left the office. Mr. Wharton went to his chambers and endeavored to make up his mind what step he must now take in reference to this dreadful incubus. Of course he could turn the man out of his house, but in doing so it might well be that he would also turn out his own daughter. He believed Lopez to be utterly without means, and a man so destitute would generally be glad to be relieved from the burden of his wife's support. But this man would care nothing for his wife's comfort, nothing even as Mr. Wharton believed, for his wife's life. He would simply use his wife as best he might as a means for obtaining money. There was nothing to be done but to buy him off, buy so much money down, and buy so much at stated intervals as long as he should keep away. Mr. Walker must manage it, but it was quite clear to Mr. Wharton that the Guatemala scheme was altogether at an end. In the meantime, a certain sum must be offered to the man at once, on condition that he would leave the house and do so without taking his wife with him. So far Mr. Wharton had a plan, and a plan that was at least feasible, wretched as he was, miserable as he thought of the fate which had befallen his daughter. There was still a prospect of some relief, but Lopez, as he walked out of the office, had nothing to which he could look for comfort. He slowly made his way to Little Tankard Yard, and there he found Sexty Parker, balancing himself on the back legs of his chair with a small decanter of public house sherry before him. What? You here? he said. Yes, I have come to say goodbye. Where are you going then? You shan't start a Guatemala if I know it. That's all over my boy, said Lopez, smiling. What is it you mean? said Sexty, sitting square on his chair and looking very serious. I am not going to Guatemala or anywhere else. I thought I'd just look in to tell you that I'm just done for, that I haven't a hope of a shilling now or hereafter. You told me the other day that I was afraid to come here. You see that as soon as anything is fixed, I come and tell you everything at once. What is fixed? That I am ruined, that there isn't a penny to come from any source. Wharton has gotten money, said Sexty, and there is money in the Bank of England, but I cannot get at it. What are you going to do, Lopez? Ah, that's the question. What am I going to do? I can say nothing about that, but I can say, Sexty, that our affairs are at an end. I'm very sorry for it, old boy. We ought to have made fortunes, but we didn't. As far as the work went, I did my best. Goodbye, old fellow. You'll do well some of these days yet, I don't doubt. Don't teach the barons to curse me. As for Mrs. P., I have no hope there, I know. Then he went, leaving Sexty Parker quite aghast. End of Chapter 58. Chapter 59 of the Prime Minister. This is a Lieberbox recording. All Lieberbox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Lieberbox.org. Recording by Nicholas Clifford. The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 59. The First and the Last. When Mr. Wharton was in Coleman Street, having his final interview with Mr. Hartlepod, there came a visitor to Mrs. Lopez in Manchester Square. Up to this date, there had been great doubt with Mr. Wharton whether at last the banishment to Guatemala would become a fact. From day to day his mind had changed. It had been an infinite benefit that Lopez should go, if he could be got to go alone, but as great an evil if at last he should take his wife with him. But the father had never dared to express these doubts to her, and she had taught herself to think that absolute banishment with the man whom she certainly no longer loved was the punishment she had to pay for the evil she had done. It was now March and the 2nd or 3rd of April had been fixed for her departure. Of course she had endeavored from time to time to learn all that was to be learned from her husband. Sometimes she would be almost communicative to her, and other times she could hardly get a word from him. But through it all, he gave her to believe that she would have to go, nor did her father make any great effort to turn his mind the other way. If it must be so, of what use would be such false kindness on his part, she had therefore gone to work to make her purchases, studying that economy which must henceforth be the great duty of her life, and reminding herself as to everything she bought that it would have to be worn with tears and used in sorrow. And then she sent a message to Arthur Fletcher. It so happened that Sir Allured Wharton was up in London at this time with his daughter Mary. Sir Allured did not come to Manchester Square. There was nothing that the old baronet could say in the midst of all this misery, no comfort that he could give. It was well known now to all the Whartons and all the Fletchers that this Lopez, who had married her, who was to have been the pearl of the two families, had proved himself to be a scoundrel. The two old Whartons met no doubt at some club, or perhaps in stone buildings, and spoke some few bitter words to each other, but Sir Allured did not see the unfortunate young woman who had disgraced herself by so wretched a marriage. But Mary came, and by her a message was sent to Arthur Fletcher. Tell him that I am going, said Emily. Tell him not to come, but give him my love. He was always one of my kindest friends. Why, why, why did you not take him? said Mary, moved by the excitement of the moment to suggestions which were quite in variance with the fixed propriety of her general ideas. Why should you speak of that, said the other? I never speak of him, never think of him. But if you see him, tell him what I say. Arthur Fletcher was, of course, in the square on the following day, on that very day on which Mr Wharton learned that whatever might be his daughter's fate, she would not, at any rate, be taken to Guatemala. They too had never met since the day on which they had been brought together for a moment at the duchess's party at Richmond. It had, of course, been understood by both of them that they were not to be allowed to see each other. Her husband had made a pretext of an active friendship on his part to establish a quarrel, and both of them had been bound by that quarrel. When a husband declares that his wife shall not know a man, that edict must be obeyed, or, if disobeyed, must be subverted by intrigue, in this case there would have been no inclination to intrigue on either side. The order had been obeyed, and as far as the wife was concerned, had been only a small part of the terrible punishment which had come upon her as the result of her marriage. But now, when Arthur Fletcher set up his name, she did not hesitate as to seeing him. No doubt she had thought it probable that she might see him when she gave her message to her cousin.  It is very good of you. Yes, I suppose we are going. Guatemala sounds a long way off, Arthur, doesn't it? But they tell me it is a beautiful country. She spoke with a cheerful voice, almost as though she liked the idea of her journey, but he looked at her with beseeching, anxious, sorrow-laden eyes. After all, what is the journey of a few weeks? Why should I not be as happy in Guatemala as in London? As to friends, I do not know that it will make much difference, except Papá. It seems to me to make a difference, said he. I never see anybody now, neither your people nor the Wharton Whartons. Indeed, I see nobody. If it were not for Papá, I should be glad to go. I am told that it is a charming country. I have not found Manchester Square very charming. I am inclined to think that all the world is very much alike, and that it does not matter very much where one lives, or perhaps what one does. But at any rate, I am going, and I am very glad to be able to say goodbye to you before I start. All this, she said rapidly, in a manner unlike herself. She was forcing herself to speak, so that she might save herself, if possible, from breaking down in his presence. Of course I came when Mary told me. Yes, she was here, Sir Alurid did not come. I do not wonder at that, however.  But I did not expect her to come. Why should they come? I do not know whether you might not better have stayed away. Of course I am a pariah now, but pariah as I am, I shall be as good as anyone else in Guatemala. You have seen Everett since he has been in town, perhaps? Yes, I have seen him. I hope they won't quarrel with Everett because of what I have done. I have felt that, more than all, that both Papa and he have suffered because of it. Do you know, I think people are hard. They might have thrown me off without being unkind to them. It is that that has killed me, Arthur, that they should have suffered. He sat looking at her, not knowing how to interrupt her or what to say. There was much that he had meant to say, but he did not know how to begin it, or how to frame his words. When I am gone perhaps it will be all right, she continued. When he told me that I was to go, that was my comfort. I think I have taught myself to think nothing of myself, to bear it all as a necessity, to put up with it whatever it might be, as men bear thirst in the desert. Thank God, Arthur, I have no baby to suffer with me. Here, here, it is still very bad. When I think of Papa creeping in and out of his house, I sometimes feel that I must kill myself. But our going will put an end to all that. It is much better that we should go. I wish we might start tomorrow. Then she looked up at him, and saw that the tears were running down his face, and as she looked she heard his sobs. Why should you cry, Arthur? He never cries, nor do I. When baby died, I cried, but very little.  It has to be borne, and there is an end of it. When one makes up one's mind to that, one does not cry. There was a poor woman here the other day whose husband he had ruined. She wept and bewailed herself till I pitied her almost more than myself. But then she had children. Oh, Emily! You mustn't call me by my name, because he would be angry. I have to do, you know, as he tells me, and I do so strive to do it. Through it all, I have an idea that if I do my duty, it will be better for me. There are things, you know, which a husband may tell you to do, but you cannot do. If he tells me to rob, I am not to rob, am I? And now I think of it, you ought not to be here. He would be very much displeased. But it has been so pleasant once more to see an old friend. I care nothing for his anger, said Arthur Moodley. Ah, but I do. I have to care for it. Leave him. Why don't you leave him? What? You cannot deceive me. You do not try to deceive me.  I will hear nothing of the kind, sir. How can I speak otherwise when you yourself tell me of your own misery? Is it possible that I should not know what he is? Would you have me pretend to think well of him? You can hold your tongue, Arthur. No, I cannot hold my tongue. Have I not held my tongue ever since you married? And if I am to speak at all, must I not speak now? There is nothing to be said that can serve us at all. Then it shall be said without serving, when I bid you leave him, it is not that you may come to me, though I love you better than all the world put together. I do not mean that. Arthur, Arthur, but let your father save you. Only tell him that you will stay with him, and he will do it. Though I should never see you again, I could hope to protect you.  I will not hear it, said she, rising from her seat on the sofa, with her hands up to her forehead, but still coming nearer to him as she moved. Does not your father say the same thing? I will advise nothing that he does not advise. I would not say a word to you that he might not hear. I do love you. I have always loved you. But you think that I would hurt you with my love? No, no, no. No indeed. But I would have you feel that those who loved you of old are still anxious for your welfare.  I spoke of papa and Everett for myself. Of course I have separated myself from everybody. Never for me you may be ten times his wife, but you cannot separate yourself from me. Getting up in the morning and going to bed at night, I still tell myself that you are the one woman that I love. Stay with us and you shall be honoured, as that man's wife, of course, but still as the dearest friend we have. I cannot stay, she said. He has told me that I am to go and I am in his hands. When you have a wife, Arthur, you will wish her to do your bidding. I hope she will do it for your sake without the pain I have in doing his. Good-bye, dear friend. She put her hand out and he grasped it, and stood for a moment looking at her. Then he seized her in his arms and kissed her brow and her lips. Oh, Emily, why were you not my wife, my darling, my darling? She had hardly extricated herself when the door opened and Lopez stood in the room. Mr. Fletcher, he said very calmly, what is the meaning of this? He has come to bid me farewell, said Emily, when going on so long a journey one likes to see one's old friends, perhaps for the last time. There was something of indifference to his anger in her tone, and something also of scorn. Lopez looked from one to the other, affecting an air of great displeasure. You know, sir, he said, that you cannot be welcome here. But he has been welcome, said his wife. And I look upon your coming as a base act. You are here with the intention of creating discord between me and my wife. I am here to tell her that she has a friend to trust, if she ever wants a friend, said Fletcher. And you think that such a trust is that would be safer than trust in her husband? I cannot turn you out of this house, sir, because it does not belong to me, but I desire you to leave at once the room which is occupied by my wife. Fletcher paused a moment to say goodbye to the poor woman, while Lopez continued with increased indignation. If you do not go at once, he will force me to desire her to retire. She shall not remain in the same room with you. Goodbye, Mr. Fletcher, she said, again, putting out her hand. But Lopez struck it up, not violently, so as to hurt her, but still with eager roughness. Not in my presence, he said, go, sir, when I desire you. God bless you, my friend, said Arthur Fletcher. I pray that I may live to see you back in the old country.  He was, said Emily. And you tell me so to my face, with such an air as that? What am I to tell you when you ask me? I did not bid him to kiss me. But afterwards you took his part as his friend. Why not? I should lie to you if I pretended that I was angry with him for what he did. Perhaps you will tell me that you love him. Of course I love him. There are different kinds of love, Ferdinand. There is that which a woman gives to a man when she would feign mate with him. It is the sweetest love of all if it would only last. And there is another love which is not given, but which is one, perhaps through long years by old friends. I have none older than Arthur Fletcher, and none who are dearer to me. And you think it right that he should take you in his arms and kiss you? On such an occasion I could not blame him. You were ready enough to receive it, perhaps. Well, I was. He has loved me well, and I shall never see him again. He is very dear to me, and I was parting from him for ever. It was the first and the last, and I did not grudge it to him. You must remember, Ferdinand, that you were taking me across the world from all my friends. Cha! he said. That is all over. You are not going anywhere that I know of, unless it be out into the streets when your father shuts his door on you. And so, saying, he left the room without another word. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. And thus the knowledge was conveyed to Mrs. Lopez that her fate in life was not to carry her to Guatemala. At the very moment in which she had been summoned to meet Arthur Fletcher, she had been busy with her needle, preparing that almost endless collection of garments necessary for a journey of many days at sea. And now she was informed by a chance expression, by a word aside, as it were, that the journey was not to be made. That is all over, he had said, and then had left her, telling her nothing further. Of course, she stayed her needle. Whether the last word had been true or false, she could not work again at any rate till it had been contradicted. If it were so, what was to be her fate? One thing was certain to her that she could not remain under her father's roof. It was impossible that an arrangement so utterly distasteful as the present one, both to her father and to herself, should be continued. But where then should they live? And of what nature would her life be if she should be separated from her father? That evening she saw her father and he corroborated her husband's statement. It is all over now, he said, that scheme of his of going to superintend the mines. The mines don't want him and won't have him. I can't say that I wonder at it. What are we to do, Papa? Ah, that I cannot say. I suppose he will condescend still to honour me with his company. I do not know why he should wish to go to Guatemala or elsewhere. He has everything here that he can want. You know, Papa, that that is impossible. I cannot say what with him is possible or impossible. He is bound by none of the ordinary rules of mankind. That evening Lopez returned to his dinner in Manchester Square, which was still regularly served for him and his wife, though the servants who attended upon him did so under silent and oft-repeated protest. He said not a word more as to Arthur Fletcher, nor did he seek any ground of quarrel with his wife. But that her continued melancholy and dejection made anything like good-humour impossible. Even on his part, he would have been good-humoured. When they were alone, she asked him as to their future destiny. Papa tells me you are not going, she began by saying. Did I not tell you so this morning? Yes, you said so, but I did not know you were in earnest. Is it all over? All over, I suppose. I should have thought that you would have told me with more. More seriousness. I don't know what you would have. I was serious enough. The fact is that your father has delayed so long the payment of the promised money that the thing has fallen through of necessity. I do not know that I can blame the company. Then there was a pause. And now, she said, what do you mean to do? Upon my word I cannot say, I am quite as much in the dark as you can be. That is nonsense, Ferdinand. Thank you. Let it be nonsense, if you will. It seems to me that there is a great deal of nonsense going on in the world, but very little of it as true as what I say now. But it is your duty to know. Of course you cannot stay here. Nor you, I suppose, without me. I am not speaking of myself. If you choose, I can remain here. And, just as you said, I am not speaking of myself. I am here.  If you provide another home for me, I will go to it. However poor it may be, I will go to it if you bid me. But for you, of course you cannot stay here. Has your father told you to say so to me? No, but I can say so without his telling me.  He has put up with it while he thought that you were going to this foreign country, but there must be an end of that now.  Upon my soul I have none. You must have some intentions for the future. None in the least. I have had intentions, and they have failed, from want of that support which I had a right to expect. I have struggled, and I have failed, and now I have got no intentions. What are yours? It is not my duty to have any purpose as what I do must depend on your commands. Then again there was a silence during which he lit a cigar although he was sitting in the drawing-room. This was a profanation of the room on which he had never ventured before, but at the present moment she was unable to notice it by any words. I must tell Papa she said after a while what our plans are. You can tell him what you please. I have literally nothing to say to him. If he will settle an adequate income on us, payable of course to me, I will go and live elsewhere. If he turns me into the street without provision, he must turn you too. That is all that I have got to say. It will come better from you than from me. I am sorry of course that things have gone wrong with me. When I found myself the son-in-law of a very rich man I thought that I might spread my wings a bit, but my rich father-in-law threw me over and now I am helpless. You are not very cheerful my dear and I think I'll go down to the club. He went out of the house and did go down to the progress, the committee which was to be held with the view of judging whether he was or was not a proper person to remain a member of that assemblage had not yet been held and there was nothing to impede his entrance to the club or the execution of the command which he gave for tea and buttered toast. But no one spoke to him, nor though he affected a look of comfort did he find himself much at his ease. Among the members of the club there was a much divided opinion whether he should be expelled or not. There was a strong party who declared that his conduct socially, morally and politically had been so bad that nothing short of expulsion would meet the case. But there were others who said that no act had been proved against him which the club ought to notice. He had no doubt shown himself to be a blaggard, a man without a spark of honour or honesty. But then as they said who thought his position in the club to be unassailable what had the club to do with that? If you turn out all the blaggards and all the dishonourable men where will the club be? was a question asked with a great deal of vigor by one middle-aged gentleman who was supposed to know the club world very thoroughly. He had committed no offence which the law could recognise or punish nor had he sinned against the club rules. He is not required to be a man of honour by any regulation of which I am aware, said the middle-aged gentleman. The general opinion seemed to be that he should be asked to go and that if he declined no one should speak to him. This penalty was already inflicted on him for on the evening in question no one did speak to him. He drank his tea and ate his toast and read a magazine striving to look as comfortable and as much at his ease as men at their clubs generally are. He was not a bad actor and those who saw him and made reports as to his conduct on the following day declared that he had apparently been quite indifferent to the disagreeable incidents of his position. But his indifference had been mere acting. His careless manner with his wife had been all assumed. Selfish as he was, void as he was of all principle, utterly unmanly and even unconscious of the worth of manliness, still he was alive to the opinions of others. He thought that the world was wrong to condemn him, that the world did not understand the facts of his case and that the world generally would have done as he had done in similar circumstances. He did not know that there was such a quality as honesty, nor did he understand what the word meant. But he did know that some men, an unfortunate class, became subject to evil report from others who were more successful, and he was aware that he had become one of those unfortunates. Nor could he see any remedy for his position. It was all blank and black before him. It may be doubted whether he got much instruction or amusement from the pages of the magazine which he turned. At about twelve o'clock he left the club and took his way homewards, but he did not go straight home. It was a nasty cold March night with a catching wind and occasional short showers of something between snow and rain, as disagreeable a night for a gentleman to walk in as one could well conceive. But he went round by Trafalgar Square and along the Strand and up some dirty streets by the small theatres and so on to Holborn and by Bloomsbury Square up to Tottenham Court Road, then through some unused street into Portland Place along the Marleybourne Road and back to Manchester Square by Baker Street. He had more than doubled the distance, apparently without any object. He had been spoken too frequently by unfortunates of both sexes, but had answered a word to no one. He had trudged on and on with his umbrella over his head, but almost unconscious of the cold and wet. And yet he was a man sedulously attentive to his own personal comfort and health, who had at any rate shown this virtue in his mode of living that he had never subjected himself to danger by imprudence. But now the working of his mind kept him warm and, if not dry, at least indifferent to the damp. He had thrown aside with affected nonchalance those questions which his wife had asked him, but still it was necessary that he should answer them. He did not suppose that he could continue to live in Manchester Square in his present condition, nor if it was necessary that he should wander forth into the world could he force his wife to wander with him. If he would consent to leave her his father-in-law would probably give him something, some allowance on which he might exist. But then of what sort would be his life? He did not fail to remind himself over and over again that he had nearly succeeded. He had been the guest of the Prime Minister and had been the nominee chosen by a duchess to represent her husband's borough in Parliament. He had been intimate with Mills Haperton, who was fast becoming a millionaire. He had married much above himself in every way. He had achieved a certain popularity and was conscious of intellect. But at the present moment two or three sovereigns in his pocket were the extent of his worldly wealth and his character was utterly ruined. He regarded his fate as does a card player who day after day holds sixes and sevens when other men have the aces and kings. Fate was against him. He saw no reason why he should not have had the aces and kings continually, especially as fate had given him perhaps more than his share of them at first. He had, however, lost rubber after rubber, not paying his stakes for some of the last rubbers lost till the players would play with him no longer. The misfortune might have happened to any man, but it had happened to him. There was no beginning again. A possible small allowance and some very retired and solitary life in which there would be no show of honour, no flattery coming to him was all that was left to him. He let himself in at the house and found his wife still awake. I'm wet to the skin, he said. I made up my mind to walk and I would do it, but I am a fool for my pains.  I must be out early in the morning. Mind you make them dry my things. They never do anything for my telling. You don't want them dried to-night? Not to-night, of course, but after I am gone to-morrow. They'll leave them there without putting a hand to them if you don't speak. I must be off before breakfast to-morrow. Where are you going? Do you want anything packed? No, nothing. I shall be back to dinner, but I must go down to Birmingham to see a friend of Habitans on business. I will breakfast at the station. As you said to-day, something must be done. If it's to sweep a crossing, I must sweep it. As she lay awake while he slept, she thought that those last words were the best she had heard him speak since they were married. There seemed to be some indication of a purpose in them. If he would only sweep a crossing as a man should sweep it, she would stand by him and at any rate do her duty to him in spite of all that had happened. Alas, she was not old enough to have learned that a dishonest man cannot begin even to sweep a crossing honestly till he have in very truth repented of his former dishonesty. The lazy man may become lazy no longer, but there must have been first a process through his mind whereby laziness has become odious to him, and that process can hardly be the immediate result of from misconduct. Had Lopez found his crossing at Birmingham, he would hardly have swept it well. Early on the following morning he was up and before he left his room he kissed his wife. Goodbye, old girl, he said. Don't be downhearted. If you have anything before you to do, I will not be downhearted, she said. I shall have something to do before night, I think. Father, when you see him that I will not trouble him here much longer, but tell him also that I have no thanks to give him for his hospitality. I will not tell him that, Ferdinand. He shall know it, though, but I do not mean to be crossed to you. Goodbye, love. Then he stooped over her and kissed her again, and so he took his leave of her. It was raining hard, and when he got into the street there was no job, but there was none to be found. In Baker Street he got an omnibus which took him down to the underground railway, and by that he went to Gower Street. Through the rain he walked up to the Euston Station, and there he ordered breakfast. Could he have a mutton chop and some tea? And he was very particular that the mutton chop should be well cooked. He attended him, noticed him, and was courteous to him. He condescended even to have a little light conversation with her, and on the whole he seemed to enjoy his breakfast. Upon my word I should like to breakfast here every day of my life, he said. The young lady assured him that as far as she could see there was no objection to such an arrangement. Only it's a bore, you know, he said. Then there were various little jokes between them till the young lady was quite impressed with the gentleman's pleasant affability. After a while he went back into the hall and took a first-class return ticket not for Birmingham but for the Tenway Junction. It is quite unnecessary to describe the Tenway Junction as everybody knows it. From this spot some six or seven miles distant from London lines diverge east, west and north, northeast and northwest, round the metropolis in every direction and with direct communication with every other line in and out of London. It is a marvellous place, quite unintelligible to the uninitiated and yet daily used by thousands who only know that when they get there they are to do what someone tells them. The space occupied by the convergent rails seems to be sufficient for a large farm and these rails always run into one another with sloping points and cross passages and mysterious meandering sidings till it seems to the thoughtful stranger to be impossible that the best-trained engine should know its own line. Here and there and around there is ever a wilderness of wagons, some loaded, some empty, some smoking with close-packed oxen and others furlongs in length, black with coals, which look as though they had been stranded there by chance and were never destined to get again into the right path of traffic. Not a minute passes without a train going here or there, some rushing by without noticing Tenway in the least, crashing through like flashes of substantial lightning and others stopping, disgorging and taking up passengers by the hundreds. Men and women, especially the men for the women knowing their ignorance are generally willing to trust to the pundits of the place, look doubtful, uneasy and bewildered. But they all do get properly placed and unplaced so that the spectator at last acknowledges that over all this apparent chaos there is presiding a great genius of order, from dusky to dark night and indeed almost throughout the night the air is loaded with a succession of shrieks. The theory goes that each separate shriek, if there can be any separation when the sound is so nearly continuous, is a separate notice to separate ears of the coming or going of a separate train. The stranger as he speculates on these pandemoniac noises is able to realize the idea that where they discontinued the excitement necessary for the minds of the pundits might be lowered and that activity might be lessened and evil results might follow. But he cannot bring himself to credit that theory of individual notices. At Tenway Junction there are half a dozen long platforms on which men and women and luggage are crowded. On one of these for a while Ferdinand Lopez walked backwards and forwards as though waiting for the coming of some a special train. The crowd is ever so great that a man might be supposed to walk there from morning to night without exciting special notice. But the pundits are very clever and have much experience in men and women. A well-taught pundit who has exercised authority for a year or two at such a station as that of Ferdinand, will know within a minute of the appearance of each stranger what is his purpose there, whether he be going or has just come, whether he is himself on the way or waiting for others, whether he should be treated with civility or with some curt command, so that if his purport be honest all necessary assistance may be rendered him. As Lopez was walking up and down with smiling face and leisurely pace, now reading an advertisement and now watching the contortions of some amazed passenger a certain pundit asked him his business. He was waiting, he said, for a train from Liverpool, intending when his friend arrived to go with him to Dulwich by a train which went round the west of London. It was all feasible and the pundit told him that the stopping train from Liverpool was there in six minutes but that the express from the north would pass first. Lopez thanked the pundit and gave him six pence which made the pundit suspicious. A pundit hopes to be paid when he handles luggage but has no such expectation when he merely gives information. The pundit still had his eye on our friend when the shriek and the whore of the express from the north was heard. Lopez then ran a few yards along the platform not noticing the man reaching a spot that was unoccupied and there he stood fixed and as he stood the express flashed by. I am fond of seeing them pass like that said Lopez to the man who had followed him but you shouldn't do it sir said the suspicious pundit no one isn't allowed to see the man the pundit no one isn't allowed to stand near like that the very hair of it might take you off your legs when you're not used to it. All right old fellow said Lopez retreating the next train was the Liverpool train and it seemed that our friend's friend had not come for when the Liverpool passengers had cleared themselves off he was still walking up and down the platform the pundit who now followed him about and kept an eye on him there ain't another from Liverpool stopping here till the 220 said the pundit you had better come again if you mean to meet him by that he has come on part of the way and will reach this by some other train said Lopez there ain't nothing he can come by said the pundit gentlemen can't wait here all day sir the hoarders is against waiting on the platform all right said Lopez moving away as though to make his exit through the station now Tenway Junction is so big a place and so scattered that it is impossible that all the pundits should by any combined activity maintain to the letter that order of which our special pundit had spoken Lopez departing from the platform which he had hitherto occupied was soon to be seen on another walking up and down and again waiting but the old pundit had had his eye upon him and had followed him round at that moment there came a shriek louder than all the other shrieks and the morning express down from Houston to Inverness was seen coming round the curve at a thousand miles an hour Lopez turned round and looked at it and again walked towards the edge of the platform but now it was not exactly the edge that he neared but a descent to a pathway an inclined plane leading down to the level of the rails and made there for certain purposes of traffic as he did so the pundit called to him and then made a rush at him for our friend's back was turned to the coming train but Lopez he did not the call and the rush was too late with quick but still with gentle and apparently unhurried steps he walked down before the flying engine and in a moment had been knocked into bloody atoms End of Chapter 60 Chapter 61 of The Prime Minister This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollop Chapter 61 The Widow and Her Friends The catastrophe described in the last chapter had taken place during the first week in March by the end of that month old Mr. Wharton had probably reconciled himself to the tragedy although in fact it had affected him very deeply. In the first days after the news had reached him he seemed to be bowed to the ground stone buildings were neglected and the Eldon saw nothing of him. Indeed he barely left the house from which he had been so long banished by the presence of his son-in-law. It seemed to Everett who now came to live with him and his sister as though his father were overcome by the horror of the affair. But after a while he recovered himself and appeared one morning in court with his wig and gown and argued a case unusual with him as though to show the world that a dreadful episode in his life was past and should be thought of no more. At this period three or four weeks after the occurrence he rarely spoke to his daughter about Lopez but to Everett the man's name would be often on his tongue. I do not know that there could have been any other deliverance he said to his son one day. I thought it would have killed me and it nearly killed her but at any rate now there is peace. But the widow seemed to feel it more as time went on. At first she was stunned and for a while absolutely senseless. It was not till two days after the occurrence that the fact became known to her nor known as a certainty to her father and brother. It seemed as though the man had been careful to carry with him no record of identity the nature of which would permit it to outlive the crash of the train. No card was found no scrap of paper with his name and it was discovered at last that when he left the house on the fatal morning he had been careful to dress himself in shirt and socks with handkerchief and collar that had been newly purchased for his proposed journey and which bore no mark. The fragments of his body set identity at defiance and even his watch had been crumpled into ashes. Of course the fact became certain with no great delay. The man himself was missing and was accurately described both by the young lady from the refreshment room and by the suspicious pundit who had actually seen the thing done. There was first belief that it was so which was not communicated to Emily and then certainty. There was an inquest held of course while we will say on the body and singularly enough great difference of opinion as to the manner though of course none as to the immediate cause of the death. Had it been accidental or premeditated the pundit who in the performance of his duties on the ten-way platforms was so efficient and valuable gave half a dozen opinions in half a dozen minutes when subjected to the questions of the coroner. In his own mind he had not the least doubt in the world as to what had happened but he was made to believe that he was not to speak his own mind. The gentleman he said certainly might have walked down by accident the gentleman's back was turned and it was possible that the gentleman did not hear the train. He was quite certain the gentleman knew of the train but yet he could not say. The gentleman walked down before the train of purpose but perhaps he didn't mean to do himself an injury. There was a deal of this till the coroner putting all his wrath into his brow told the man that he was a disgrace to the service and expressed a hope that the company would no longer employ a man so evidently unfit for his position. But the man was in truth a conscientious and useful railway pundit with a large family and evident capabilities for his business. At last a verdict was given that the man's name was Ferdinand Lopez that he had been crushed by an express train on the London and Northwestern line and that there was no evidence to show how his presence on the line had been occasioned. Of course Mr. Wharton had employed counsel and of course the counsel's object had been to avoid a verdict of fellow d'essay. Appended to the verdict was a recommendation from the jury that the railway company should be advised to signalize their express trains more clearly at the Tenway Junction station. When these tidings were told to the widow she had already given way to many fears. Lopez had gone purporting as he said to be back to dinner. He had not come then nor on the following morning nor had he written. Then she remembered all that he had done and said how he had kissed her and left a parting malediction for her father. She did not at first imagine that he had destroyed himself but that he had gone away intending to vanish as other men before now have vanished. As she thought of this something almost like love came back upon her heart. Of course he was bad. Even in her sorrow even when alarmed as to his fate she could not deny that. But her oath to him had not been to love him only while he was good. She had made herself a part of him and was she not bound to be true to him whether good or bad? She implored her father and she implored her brother to be ceaseless in their endeavours to trace him sometimes seeming almost to fear that in this respect she could not fully trust them. Then she discerned from their manner a doubt as to her husband's fate. O Papa, if you think anything tell me what you think she said late on the evening of the second day. He was then nearly sure that the man who had been killed at Tenway was Ferdinand Lopez but he was not quite sure and he would not tell her. But on the following morning somewhat before noon having himself gone out early to Euston Square he came back to his own house and then he told her all. For the first hours she did not shed a tear or lose her consciousness of the horror of the thing but sat still and silent gazing at nothing casting back her mind over the history of her life and the misery which she had brought on all who belonged to her. Then at last she gave way fell into tears, hysterics sobbing, convulsions so violent as for a time to take the appearance of epileptic fits and was at last exhausted and happily for herself, unconscious. After that she was ill for many weeks so ill that at times both her father and her brother thought that she would die. When the first month or six weeks had passed by she would often speak of her husband especially to her father and always speaking of him as though she had brought him to his untimely fate. Nor could she endure at this time that her father should say a word against him even when she obliged the old man to speak of one whose conduct had been so infamous. It had all been her doing. Had she not married him there had been no misfortune. She did not say that he had been noble, true or honest but she asserted that all the evils which had come upon him had been produced by herself. My dear said her father to her one evening it is a matter which we cannot forget but on which it is well that we should be silent. I shall always know what that silence means she replied. It will never mean condemnation of you by me said he. But I have destroyed your life and his I know I ought not to have married him because you bad me not and I know that I should have been gentler with him and more obedient when I was his wife I sometimes wish that I were a Catholic and that I could go into a convent and bury it all amidst sackcloths and ashes. That would not bury it said her father. But I should at least be buried if I were out of your sight you might forget it all. She once stirred Everett up to speak more plainly than her father ever dared to do and then also she herself used language that was very plain. My darling said her brother once when she had been trying to make out that her husband had been more sinned against than sinning he was a bad man it is better that the truth should be told. And who is a good man she said raising herself in her bed and looking him full in the face with her deep sunken eyes if there be any truth in our religion are we not all bad who is to tell the shades of difference in badness he was not a drunkard or a gambler through it all he was true to his wife.  He was industrious his ideas about money were not the same as yours or Papa's how was he worse than others it happened that his faults were distasteful to you and so perhaps were his virtues his faults such as they were brought all these miseries he would have been successful now if he had never seen me but why should we talk of it we shall never agree and you Everett can never understand all that has passed through my mind during the last two years there were two or three persons who attempted to see her at this period but she avoided them all first came Mrs. Robie who as her nearest neighbor as her aunt and as an aunt who had been so nearly allied to her had almost a right to demand admittance but she would not see Mrs. Robie she sent down word to say that she was too ill and when Mrs. Robie wrote to her she got her father to answer the notes you had better let it drop the old man said at last to his sister-in-law of course she remembers that it was you who brought them together but I didn't bring them together Mr. Wharton how often am I to tell you so it was Everett who brought Mr. Lopez here the marriage was made up in your house and it has destroyed me and my child I will not quarrel with my wife's sister if I can help it but at present you had better keep apart then he had left her abruptly and Mrs. Robie had not dared either to write or to call again at this time Arthur Fletcher saw both Everett and Mr. Wharton frequently but he did not go to the square contenting himself with asking whether he might be allowed to do so not yet Arthur said the old man I am sure she thinks of you as one of her best friends but she could not see you yet she would have nothing to fear said Arthur we knew each other when we were children and I should be now only as I was then not yet Arthur not yet said the barrister then there came a letter or rather two letters from Mary Wharton one to Mr. Wharton and the other to Emily to tell the truth as to these letters they contained the combined wisdom and tenderness of Wharton Hall and Longbarnes as soon as the fate of Lopez had been ascertained and thoroughly discussed in Hereford there went forth an edict that Emily had suffered punishment sufficient and was to be given old Mrs. Fletcher did not come to this at once having some deep-seated feeling which she did not dare to express even to her son though she muttered it to her daughter in law that Arthur would be disgraced forever were he to marry the widow of such a man as Ferdinand Lopez but when this question of receiving Emily back into family favor was mooted in the Longbarnes Parliament no one alluded to the possibility of such a marriage there was the fact that she whom they had all loved had been freed by a great tragedy from a husband whom they had all condemned and also the knowledge that the poor victim had suffered greatly during the period of her married life Mrs. Fletcher had frowned and shaken her head and made a little speech about the duties of women and the necessarily fatal consequences when those duties are neglected there were present there with the old lady John Fletcher and his wife Sir Al Ured and Lady Wharton and Mary Wharton Arthur was not in the county nor could the discussion have been held in his presence I can only say Sir John getting up and looking away from his mother that she shall always find a home at Longbarnes when she chooses to come here and I hope Sir Al Ured will say the same as to Wharton Hall after all John Fletcher was king in these parts and Mrs. Fletcher with many noddings and some sobbing had to give way to King John the end of all this was that Mary Wharton wrote her letters in that to Mr. Wharton she asked whether it would not be better that her cousin should change the scene and come at once into the country let her come and stay for a month at Wharton and then go on to Longbarnes she might be sure that there would be no company in either house in June the Fletchers would go up to town for a week and then Emily might return to Wharton Hall it was a long letter and Mary gave many reasons why the poor sufferer would be better in the country than in town the letter to Emily herself was shorter but full of affection you do do do come you know how we all love you let it be as it used to be you always liked the country I will devote myself to try and comfort you but Emily could not as yet submit to receive devotion even from her cousin Mary through it all and under it all though she would ever defend her husband because he was dead she knew that she had disgraced the Whartons and brought sorrow upon the Fletchers and she was too proud to be forgiven so quickly then she received another tender of affection from a quarter whence she certainly did not expect it the Duchess of Omnium wrote to her the Duchess though she had lately been considerably restrained by the condition of the Duke's mind and by the effects of her own political and social mistakes still from time to time made renewed efforts to keep together the coalition by giving dinners, balls and garden parties and by binding to herself the gratitude and worship of young parliamentary aspirants in carrying out her plans she had lately showered her courtesies upon Arthur Fletcher who had been made welcome even by the Duke as the sitting member for Silverbridge with Arthur she had of course discussed the conduct of Lopez as to the election bills and had been very loud in condemning him and from Arthur also she had heard something of the sorrows of Emily Lopez Arthur had been very desirous that the Duchess who had received them both at her house should distinguish between the husband and the wife then had come the tragedy to which the notoriety of the man's conduct of course gave additional interest it was believed that Lopez had destroyed himself because of the disgrace which had fallen upon him from the Silverbridge affair and for much of that Silverbridge affair the Duchess herself was responsible she waited till a couple of months had gone by and then in the beginning of May sent to the widow what was intended to be and indeed was a very kind note the Duchess had heard the sad story with the greatest grief she hoped that Mrs. Lopez would permit her to avail herself of a short acquaintance to express her sincere sympathy she would not venture to call as yet but hoped that before long she might be allowed to come to Manchester Square this note touched the poor woman to whom it was written not because she herself was acquainted with the Duchess of Omnium but because the application seemed to her to contain something like an acquittal or at any rate a pardon of her husband his sin in that measure of the Silverbridge election a sin which her father had been loud in denouncing before the wretch had destroyed himself had been especially against the Duke of Omnium and now the Duchess came forward given and forgotten when she showed the letter to her father and asked him what she should say an answer to it he only shook his head it is meant for kindness Papa yes I think it is there are people who have no right to be kind to me if a man stopped me in the street and offered me half a crown it might be kindness but I don't want the man's half crown I don't think it is the same Papa there is a reason here perhaps so my dear but I do not see the reason she became very red but even to him she would not explain her ideas I think I shall answer it certainly answer it your compliments to the Duchess and thank her for her kind inquiries but she says she will come here I should not notice that very well Papa if you think so of course I will not perhaps it would be an inconvenience if she were really to come on the next day she did write a note not quite so cold as that which her father proposed but still saying nothing as to the offered visit she felt she said very grateful for the Duchess's kind remembrance of her the Duchess would perhaps understand that at present her sorrow overwhelmed her there was one other tender of kindness which was more surprising even than that from the Duchess the reader may perhaps remember that Ferdinand Lopez and Lady Eustace had not parted when they last saw each other on the pleasantest terms he had been very affectionate but when he had proposed to devote his whole life to her and to carry her off to Guatemala she had simply told him that he was a fool then he had escaped from her house and had never again seen Lizzie Eustace she had not thought very much about it had he returned to her the next day with some more tempting proposition for making money she would have listened to him and had he begged her pardon for what had taken place on the former day she would have merely laughed she was not more offended than she would have been had he asked her for half her fortune instead of her person and her honour but as it was he had escaped and had never again shown himself in the little street near Mayfair then she had the tidings of his death first seeing the account in a very sensational article from the pen of Mr. Quintus Slide himself she was immediately filled with an intense interest which was infinitely increased by the fact that the man had a few days before declared himself to be her lover it was bringing her almost as near to the event as though she had seen it she was perhaps entitled to think that she had caused it nay, in one sense she had caused it for he certainly would not have destroyed himself had she consented to go with him to Guatemala or elsewhere and she knew his wife an uninteresting dowdy creature she had called her but nevertheless they had been in company together more than once so she presented her compliments and expressed her sorrow and hoped that she might be allowed to call there had been no one for whom she had felt more sincere respect and esteem than for her late friend Mr. Ferdinand Lopez to this note there was sent an answer written by Mr. Wharton himself Madam, my daughter is too ill to see even her own friends I am Madam, your obedient servant Abel Wharton after this life went on in a very quiet way at Manchester Square for many weeks gradually Mrs. Lopez recovered her capability of attending to the duties of life gradually she became again able to interest herself in her brother's pursuits in her father's comforts and the house returned to its old form as it had been before these terrible two years in which the happiness of the Wharton and Fletcher families had been marred and scotched and almost destroyed forever by the interference of Ferdinand Lopez but Mrs. Lopez never for a moment forgot that she had done the mischief and that the black enduring cloud had been created solely for her own perversity and self-will though she would still defend her late husband if any attack were made upon his memory not the less did she feel that hers had been the fault though the punishment had come upon them all End of Chapter 61