The Duke said on the day of his departure. But Phineas could not go then. His services to his country were required among the dockyards and ships, and he postponed his visit till the end of September. Then he started for matching, having the double pleasure before him of meeting his wife and his noble host and hostess. He found a small party there, but not so small as the Duchess had once suggested to him. Your wife will be there, of course, Mr. Phine. She is too good to desert me and my troubles. And there will probably be Lady Resina to Corsi. Lady Resina is to the Duke what your wife is to me. I don't suppose there will be anybody else, except perhaps Mr. Warburton. But Lady Resina was not there. In place of Lady Resina, there were the Duke and Duchess of St. Bungie with their daughters, two or three palacer offshoots with their wives, and Barrington Earl. There were two, the Bishop of the Diocese with his wife, and three or four others, coming and going, so that the party never seemed to be too small. We asked Mr. Rattler, said the Duchess, and a whisper to Phineas, but he declined with a string of floored compliments. When Mr. Rattler won't come to the Prime Minister's house, you may depend that something is going to happen. It is like pigs carrying straws in their mouths. Mr. Rattler is my pig. This only laughed, and said that he did not believe Rattler to be a better pig than anyone else. It was soon apparent to Phineas that the Duke's manner to him was entirely altered, so much so that he was compelled to acknowledge to himself that he had not hitherto read the Duke's character aright. Hitherto he had never found the Duke pleasant in conversation. Looking back, he could hardly remember that he had in truth ever conversed with the Duke. The man had seemed to shut himself up as soon as he had uttered certain words which the circumstances of the moment had demanded. Whether it was arrogance or shyness, Phineas had not known. His wife had said that the Duke was shy. Had he been arrogant, the effect would have been the same. He was unbending, hard, and lucid only when he spoke on some detail of business or on some point of policy. But now he smiled, and though hesitating a little at first, very soon fell into the ways of a pleasant country host. "'You shoot,' said the Duke. Phineas did shoot, but cared very little about it. "'But you hunt?' Phineas was very fond of riding to Hounds. "'I am beginning to think,' said the Duke, that I have made a mistake in not caring for such things. When I was very young I gave them up, because it appeared that other men devoted too much time to them. One might as well not eat because some men are gluttons. Only that you would die if you did not eat.' Bread, I suppose, would keep me alive, but still one eats meat without being a glutton. I very often regret the want of amusements, and particularly of those which would throw me more among my fellow creatures. A man is alone when reading, alone when writing, alone when thinking. Even sitting in Parliament he is very much alone, though there be a crowd around him. Now a man can hardly be thoroughly useful unless he knows his fellow man, and how easy to know them if he shuts himself up. If I had to begin again, I think I would cultivate the amusements of the time. Not long after this the Duke asked him whether he was going to join the shooting men on that morning. Phineas declared that his hands were too full of business for any amusement before lunch. "'Then,' said the Duke, "'will you walk with me in the afternoon? There is nothing I really like so much as a walk. There were some very pretty points where the river skirts the park, and I will show you the spot on which Sir Guy de Palliser performed the feat for which the king gave him this property. It was a grand time when a man could get half a dozen parishes because he tickled the king's fancy.' But suppose he didn't tickle the king's fancy? Ah, then indeed it might go otherwise with him, but I am glad to say that Sir Guy was an accomplished courtier. The walk was taken and the pretty bends of the river were seen, but they were looked at without much earnestness, and Sir Guy's great deed was not again mentioned. The conversation went away to other matters. Of course it was not long before the Prime Minister was deep in discussing the probabilities of the next session. It was soon apparent to Phineas that the Duke was no longer desirous of resigning, though he spoke very freely if the probable necessity there might be for him to do so. At the present moment he was in his best humour. His feet were on his own property. He could see the prosperity around him. The spot was the one which he loved best in all the world. He liked his present companion, who was one to whom he was entitled to speak with freedom. But there was still present to him the sense of some injury from which he could not free himself. Of course he did not know that he had been haughty to Sir Orlando, to Sir Timothy, and others. But he did know that he had intended to be true, and he thought they had been treacherous. Twelve months ago there had been a goal before him which he might attain, a winning post which was still within his reach. There was in store for him the tranquillity of retirement which he would enjoy as soon as a sense of duty would permit him to seize it. But now the prospect of that happiness had gradually vanished from him. That retirement was no longer a winning post for him. The poison of place and the power and dignity had got into his blood. As he looked forward he feared rather than sighed for retirement. You think it will go against us, he said. Phineas did think so. There was hardly a man high up in the party who did not think so. When one branch of a coalition has gradually dropped off, the other branch will hardly flourish long. And then the tints of a political coalition is so neutral and unalluring that men will only endure them when they feel that no more pronounced colors are within their reach. After all, said Phineas, the innings has not been a bad one, it has been of service to the country, and has lasted longer than most men expected. If it has been of service to the country, that is everything. It should at least be everything. With a statesman to whom it is not everything, there must be something wrong. The duke, as he said this, was preaching to himself. He was telling himself that, though he saw the better way, he was allowing himself to walk on, and that which was worse. For it was not only Phineas who could see the change, or the old duke, or the duchess. It was apparent to the man himself, though he could not prevent it. I sometimes think, he said, that we whom chances led to be meddlers in the game of politics sometimes give ourselves hardly enough time to think what we are about. A man may have to work so hard, said Phineas, that he has no time for thinking. Or more probably may be so eager in party conflict that he will hardly keep his mind cool enough for thought. It seems to me that many men, men whom you and I know, embrace the profession of politics not only without political convictions, but without seeing that it is proper that they should entertain them. Chance brings the young man under the guidance of this or that elder man, he has come of a wig family, as was my case, or from some old Tory stock, and loyalty keeps him true to the interests which have first pushed him forward into the world. There is no conviction there. Convictions grow. Yes, the conviction that it is the man's duty to be a staunch liberal, but not the reason why. Or a man sees his opening on this side or that, as is the case with lawyers. Or he has a body of men at his back ready to support him on this side or on that, as we see with commercial men. Or perhaps he has some vague idea that aristocracy is pleasant, and he becomes a conservative, or that democracy is prospering, and he becomes a liberal.  Certainly, Duke. Why? Well, after what you have said I will not boast of myself. Experience, however, seems to show me that liberalism is demanded by the country. So perhaps at certain epochs may the devil and all his works, but you will hardly say that you will carry the devil's colors, because the country may like the devil. It is not sufficient, I think, to say that liberalism is demanded. You should know first what liberalism means, and then assure yourself that the thing itself is good. I dare say you have done so, but I see some who never make the inquiry. I will not claim to be better than my neighbors. I mean my real neighbors. I understand, I understand, said the Duke, laughing. You prefer some good Samaritan on the opposition benches to Sir Timothy and the Pharisees. It is hard to come wounded out of the fight, and then to see him who should be your friend not only walking by on the other side, but flinging a stone at you as he goes. But I did not mean just now to allude to the details of recent misfortunes, though there is no one to whom I can do so more openly than to you. I was trying yesterday to explain to myself why I have all my life sat on what is called the liberal side of the house to which I have belonged. Did you succeed? I began life with the misfortune of a ready-made political creed. There was a seat in the house for me when I was twenty-one. Nobody took the trouble to ask me my opinions. It was a matter of course that I should be a liberal. My uncle, whom nothing could ever induce to move in politics himself, took it for granted that I should run straight, as he would have said. It was the tradition of the family, and was as inseparable from it as any of the titles which he had inherited. The property might be sold or squandered, but the political creed was fixed as adamant. I don't know that I ever had a wish to rebel, but I think that I took it at first very much as a matter of course. A man seldom inquires very deeply at twenty-one. And if he does, it is ten to one, but he comes to a wrong conclusion. But since then I have satisfied myself the chance put me into the right course. It has been, I dare say, the same with you as with me. We both went into office early, with the anxiety to do special duties well, probably deterred us both from thinking much of that great question. When a man has to be on the alert to keep Ireland quiet, or to prevent peculation in the dockyards, or to raise the revenue while he lowers the taxes, he feels himself to be saved from the necessity of investigating principles. In this way I sometimes think that ministers, or they who have been ministers and who have to watch ministers from the opposition benches, have less opportunity of becoming real politicians than the men who sit in Parliament with empty hands and with time at their own disposal. But when a man has been placed by circumstances, as I am now, he does begin to think. And yet you have not empty hands. They are not so full perhaps as you think. At any rate I cannot content myself with a single branch of the public service as I used to do in the old days. Do not suppose that I claimed to have made any grand political invention, but I think that I have at least labelled my own thoughts. I suppose what we all desire is to improve the condition of the people by whom we are employed, and to advance our country, or at any rate to save it from retrogression? That, of course. So much is, of course. I give credit to my opponents in Parliament for that desire quite as readily as I do to my colleagues or to myself. The idea that political virtue is all on one side is both mischievous and absurd. We allow ourselves to talk in that way because indignation, scorn, and sometimes I fear vituperation, or the fuel with which the necessary heat of debate is maintained. There are some men who are very fond of poking the fire, said Phineas. Well, I won't name any one at present, said the Duke, but I have seen gentlemen of your country very handy with the pokers. Phineas laughed, knowing that he had been considered by some to have been a little violent when defending the Duke. But we put all that aside when we really think, and can give the conservative credit for philanthropy and patriotism as readily as the liberal. The conservative, who has had any idea of the meaning of the name which he carries, wishes, I suppose, to maintain the differences and the distances which separate the highly placed from their lower brethren. He thinks that God has divided the world as he finds it divided, and that he may best do his duty by making the inferior man happy and contented in his position, teaching him that the place which he holds is by God's ordinance. And it is so. Hardly in the sense that I mean, but that is the great conservative lesson. The lesson seems to me to be hardly compatible with continual improvement in the condition of the lower man, but with a conservative all such improvement is to be based on the idea of the maintenance of these distances. I, as a Duke, am to be kept as far apart from the man who drives my horses, as was my ancestor from the man who drove his, or who rode after him to the wars, and that is to go on forever. There is much to be said for such a scheme. Let the lords be all of them men with loving hearts and clear intellect and noble instincts, and it is possible that they should use their powers so beneficently as to spread happiness over the earth. It is one of the millenniums which the mind of man can conceive, and seems to be that which the conservative mind does conceive. But the other men who are not lords don't want that kind of happiness. If such happiness were attainable, it might be well to constrain men to accept it. But the lords of this world are fallible men, and though as units they ought to be, and perhaps are better than those others who have fewer advantages, they are much more likely as units to go astray in opinion than the bodies of men whom they would seek to govern. We know that power does corrupt, and that we cannot trust kings to have loving hearts and clear intellects and noble instincts. Men, as they come to think about it and to look forward and to look back, will not believe in such a millennium as that. Do they believe in any millennium? I think they do after a fashion, and I think that I do myself. That is my idea of conservatism. The doctrine of liberalism is, of course, the reverse. The liberal, if he have any fixed idea at all, must, I think, have conceived the idea of lessening distances, of bringing the coachmen and the duke nearer together, nearer and nearer, till a millennium shall be reached by equality, asked Phineas, eagerly interrupting the prime minister and showing his dissent by the tone of his voice. I did not use the word which is open to many objections. In the first place, the millennium, which I have perhaps rashly named, is so distant that we need not even think of it as possible. Men's intellects are at present so various that we cannot even realize the idea of equality, and here in England we have been taught to hate the word by the evil effects of those absurd attempts which have been made elsewhere to proclaim it as a fact accomplished by the scratch of a pen or by a chisel on a stone. We have been injured in that, because a good word signifying a grand idea has been driven out of the vocabulary of good men. Equality would be a heaven if we could attain it. How can we, to whom so much has been given, dare to think otherwise? How can you look at the bowed back and bent legs and abject face of that poor plowman, who winter and summer has to drag his rheumatic limbs to his work, while you go hunting or sit in pride of place among the foremost few of your country, and say that it is all as it ought to be? You are a liberal because you know it is not all as it ought to be, and because you would still march on to some nearer approach to equality, though the thing itself is so great, so glorious, so godlike, and they so absolutely divine that you have been disgusted by the very promise of it because its perfection is unattainable. Men have asserted a mock equality till the very idea of equality is distinct in men's nostrils. The duke and his enthusiasm had thrown off his hat and were sitting on a wooden seat which they had reached, looking up among the clouds. His left hand was clenched and from time to time with his right he rubbed the thin hairs on his brow. He had begun in the low voice, with a somewhat slip-shot annunciation of his words, but had gradually become clear, resonant, and even eloquent. Phineas knew that there were stories told of certain bursts of words which had come from him in former days in the House of Commons. These had occasionally surprised men and induced them to declare that Planty Powell, as he was then often called, was a dark horse, but they had been few and far between and Phineas had never heard them. Now he gazed at his companion in silence, wondering whether the speaker would go on with this speech. But the face changed on a sudden, and the duke with an awkward motion snatched up his hat. I hope you ain't cold, he said. Not at all, said Phineas. I came here because of that bend of the river. I am always very fond of that bend. We don't go over the river. That is Mr. Up John's property. The member for the county? Yes, and a very good member he is, too, though he doesn't support us. An old-school Tory, but a great friend of my uncle who, after all, had a good deal of the Tory about him. I wonder whether he is at home. I must remind the duchess to ask him to dinner. You know him, of course. Only by just seeing him in the house. You'd like him very much, when in the country he always wears knee-bridges and gaiters, which I think a very comfortable dress. Troublesome duke, isn't it? I never tried it, and I shouldn't dare now. Goodness me, it's past five o'clock, and we've got two miles to get home. I haven't looked at a letter, and the Warburton will think I've thrown myself into the river because of Sir Timothy B's wax. Then they started to go home at a fast pace. I shan't forget, duke, said Phineas, your definition of conservatives and liberals. I don't think I've ventured on a definition, only a few loose ideas which have been troubling me lately. I say, Finn, your grace, don't you go and tell Ramston and Drummond that I've been preaching equality or we shall have a pretty mess. I don't know that it would serve me with my dear friend the duke. I will be discretion itself. Equality is a dream, but sometimes one likes to dream, especially as there is no danger that matching will fly from me in a dream. I doubt whether I could bear the test that has been attempted in other countries. That poor plowman would hardly get his share, duke. No, that's where it is.  Here is her ladyship in the ponies. I don't think her ladyship would like to lose her ponies by my doctrine. The two wives of the two men were in the pony carriage, and the little lady Glencora, the duchess's eldest daughter, was sitting between them. Mr. Warburton has sent three messages to demand your presence, said the duchess, and as I live by bread I believe that you and Mr. Finn have been amusing yourselves. We have been talking politics, said the duke. Of course, what other amusement was possible, but what business have you to indulge in idle talk when Mr. Warburton wants you in the library? There has come a box, she said, big enough to contain the resignations of all the traitors of the party. This was strong language, and the duke frowned, but there was no one there to hear it but Phineas Finn and his wife, and they, at least, were trustworthy. The duke suggested that he had better get back to the house as soon as possible. There might be something to be done requiring time before dinner. Mr. Warburton might at any rate want to smoke a tranquil cigar after his day's work. The duchess therefore left the carriage, as did Mrs. Finn, and the duke undertook to drive the little girl back to the house. He'll surely go against a tree, said the duchess. But as a fact, the duke did take himself in the child-home in safety. "'And what do you think about it, Mr. Finn?' said her grace. "'I suppose you and the duke have been settling what is to be done?' "'We have certainly settled nothing. Then you must have disagreed.' "'That we as certainly have not done. We have in truth not once been out of Cloudland. Ah, then there is no hope. When once grown-up politicians get into Cloudland it is because the realities of the world have no longer any charm for them.' The big box did not contain the resignations of any of the objectionable members of the coalition. Ministers do not often resign in September, nor would it be expedient that they should do so. Lord Drummond and Sir Timothy were safe at any rate till next February, and might live without any show either of obedience or of mutiny. The duke remained in comparative quiet at it matching. There was not very much to do except to prepare the work for the next session. The great work of the coming year was to be the assimilation, or something very near to the assimilation, of the county suffrages with those of the boroughs. The measure was one which had now been promised by statesmen for the last two years, promised at first with that half promise which would mean nothing were it not that such promises always lead to more defined assurances. The duke of St. Bungie, Lord Drummond and other ministers had wished to stave it off. Mr. Monk was eager for its adoption and was, of course, supported by Phineas Finn. The prime minister had at first been inclined to be led by the old duke. There was no doubt to him that the measure was desirable and would come, but there might well be a question as to the time at which it should be made to come. The old duke knew that the measure would come, but believing it to be wholly undesirable thought that he was doing good work in postponing it from year to year. But Mr. Monk had become urgent and the old duke had admitted the necessity. There must surely have been a shade of melancholy on that old man's mind. As year after year he assisted in pulling down institutions which he in truth regarded as the safeguards of the nation, but which he knew that as a liberal he was bound to assist in destroying, it must have occurred to him from time to time that it would be well for him to depart and be at peace before everything was gone. When he went from matching Mr. Monk took his place and Phineas Finn, who had gone up to London for a while, returned, and then the three between them, with assistance from Mr. Warburton and others, worked out the proposed scheme of the new county franchise with the new divisions and the new constituencies. But it could hardly have been hardy work, as they all of them felt that whatever might be their first proposition they would be beat upon it in the House of Commons which thought that this Aristides had been long enough at the treasury. López had now been dead more than five months, and not a word had been heard by his widow of Mrs. Parker and her children. Her own sorrows had been so great that she had hardly thought of those of the poor woman who had come to her but a few days before her husband's death, telling her of ruin caused by her husband's treachery. But late on the evening before her departure for Harefordshire, very shortly after Everett had left the House, there was a ring at the door and a poorly clad female asked to see Mrs. López. The poorly clad female was Sexy Parker's wife. The servant who did not remember her would not leave her alone in the hall, having an eye to the coats and umbrellas, but called up one of the maids to carry the message. The poor woman understood the insult and resented it in her heart. But Mrs. López recognized the name in a moment and went down to her in the parlor, leaving Mr. Wharton upstairs. Mrs. Parker, smarting from her present grievance, had bent her mind on complaining at once of the treatment she had received from the servant. But the sight of the widow's weeds quelled her. Emily had never been much given to fine clothes, either as a girl or as a married woman, but it had always been her husband's pleasure that she should be well dressed, though he had never carried his trouble so far as to pay the bills. And Mrs. Parker's remembrance of her friend at Dover Court had been that of a fine lady in bright apparel.  Emily came forward and offered her hand and was the first to speak. I've had a great sorrow since we met, she said. Yes, indeed, Mrs. López, I don't think there is anything left in the world now except sorrow. I hope Mr. Parker as well will you not sit down, Mrs. Parker. Thank you, ma'am. Indeed, then, he is not well at all. How should he be well? Everything has been taken away from him. Poor Emily groaned as she heard this. I wouldn't say a word against them as is gone, Mrs. López, if I could help it. I know it is bad to bear it when him who once loved you isn't no more. And perhaps it is all the worse when things didn't go well with him, and maybe it was maybe it his own fault. I wouldn't do it, Mrs. López, if I could help it. Let me hear what you have to say, said Emily, determined to suffer everything patiently. Well, it is just this. He has left us that bare, that there is nothing left, and that, they say, isn't the worst of all. Though what can be worse than doing that is how it was a woman to think. Parker was that soft, and he had that way with him of talking, that he has talked in me and mine out of the very linen on our backs. What do you mean by saying that that is not the worst? They've come upon sexy for a bill for four hundred and fifty. Something to do with the stuff they call bios, and sexy says it isn't his name at all. But he's been in that state he don't hardly know how to swear to anything. But he sure he didn't sign it. The bill was brought to him by López, and there was words between them, and he wouldn't have nothing to do with it. How is he to go to law? And it don't make much difference, neither, for they can't take much more from him than they have taken. Emily, as she heard all this, sat shivering, trying to repress her groans. Only continued Mrs. Parker. They hadn't sold the furniture, and I was thinking they might let me stay in the house and try to do with letting lodgings. And now they're seizing everything along of this bill. Sexty's like a madman, swearing this and swearing that. But what can he do, Mrs. López? It's as like his hand as two peas. But he was clever at everything was—was—you know who I mean, ma'am. Then Emily covered her face with her hands and burst into violent tears. She had not determined whether she did or did not believe this last accusation I made against her husband. She had had hardly time to realize the criminality of the offence imputed. But she did believe that the woman before her had been ruined by her husband's speculations. It's very bad, ma'am, isn't it, said Mrs. Parker, crying for company? It's bad all round. If you had five children as hadn't bred, you'd know how it is that I feel. I've got to go back by the ten-fifteen to-night, and when I paid for my third-class ticket I shan't have but two pens left in the world. This utter depth of immediate poverty, this want of bread for the marrow and the next day, Emily could relieve out of her own pocket, and thinking of this and remembering that her purse was not with her at the moment. She started up with the idea of getting it. But it occurred to her that this would not suffice, that her duty required more of her than that, and yet by her own power she could do no more, from month to month, almost from week to week since her husband's death, her father had been called upon to satisfy claims of money which she would not resist, lest by doing so he should add to her misery. She had felt that she ought to bind herself to the strictest personal economy because of the miserable losses to which she had subjected him by her ill-starred marriage. What would you wish me to do? she said, resuming her seat. You are rich, said Mrs. Parker. Emily shook her head. They say your papa is rich. I thought you would not like to see me in one like this. Indeed, indeed, it makes me very unhappy. Wouldn't your papa do something? It wasn't Sexty's fault nigh so much as it was his. I wouldn't say it to you if it wasn't for starving. I wouldn't say it to you if it wasn't for the children. I'd lie in the ditch and die if it was only for myself, because I know what your feelings is. But what wouldn't you do? And what wouldn't you say if you had five children at home as hadn't a loaf of bread among them? Hereupon Emily got up and left the room, biding her visitor wait for a few minutes. Presently the offensive butler came in, who had wronged Mrs. Parker by watching his master's coats, and brought a tray with meat and wine. Mr. Wharton, said the altered man, hoped that Mrs. Parker would take a little refreshment, and he would be down himself very soon. Mrs. Parker, knowing that strength for her journey home would be necessary to her, remembering that she would have to walk all through the city to Bishop Gate Street Station, did take some refreshment and permitted herself to drink the glass of sherry that her late enemy had benightedly poured out for her. Emily had been nearly half an hour with her father before Mr. Wharton's heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and when he reached the dining-room door he paused a moment before he ventured back to turn the lock. He had not told Emily what he would do, and he hardly as yet made up his own mind, as every fresh call was made upon him. His hatred for the memory of the man who had stepped in and disturbed his whole life, and turned all the mellow satisfaction of his evening into storm and gloom, was of course increased. His scoundrel's name was so odious to him that he could hardly keep himself from shuddering visibly before his daughter, even when the servants called her by it. But yet he had determined that he would devote himself to save her from further suffering. It had been her fault, no doubt, but she was expiating it in very sackcloth and ashes, and he would add nothing to the burden on her back. He would pay, and pay and pay, merely remembering that what he paid must be deducted from her share of his property. He had never intended to make what is called an elder son of Everett, and now there was less necessity than ever that he should do so, as Everett had become an elder son in another direction. He could satisfy almost any demand that might be made without material injury to himself. But these demands, one after another, scalded him by their frequency and by the baseness of the man who had occasioned him. His daughter had now repeated to him with sobbing and wailings the whole story, as it had been told to her by the woman downstairs. Papa, she had said, I don't know how to tell you, or how not. Then he had encouraged her, and had listened without saying a word. He had endeavored not even to shrink as the charge of forgery was repeated to him by his own child. The widow of the guilty man. He endeavored not to remember at the moment that she had claimed this wretch as the chosen one of her maiden heart, in opposition to all his wishes. It hardly occurred to him to disbelieve the accusation. It was so probable. What was there to hinder the man from forgery, if he could only make it to believe that his victim had signed the bill when intoxicated? He heard it all. He kissed his daughter. Then he went down to the dining-room. Mrs. Parker, when she saw him, got up and curtsied low, then sat down again. Old Wharton looked at her from under his bushy eyebrows before he spoke. And then sat opposite to her. Madam, he said. This is a very sad story that I have heard. Mrs. Parker again rose, again curtsied, and put her handkerchief to her face. It is of no use talking any more about it here. No, sir, said Mrs. Parker. I and my daughter leave town early to-morrow morning. Indeed, sir, Mrs. Lopez didn't tell me. My clerk will be in London at number twelve stone buildings Lincoln's Inn, till I come back. Do you think you can find the place? I have written it there. Yes, sir, I can find it, said Mrs. Parker, just raising herself from her chair at every word she spoke. I have written his name, you see, Mr. Crumpy. Yes, sir. If you will permit me, I will give you two sovereigns now. Thank you, sir. And if you can make it convenient to call on Mr. Crumpy every Thursday morning about twelve, he will pay you two sovereigns a week till I come back to town. Then I will see about it. God Almighty bless you, sir. And as to the furniture, I will write to my attorney, Mr. Walker. You need not trouble yourself by going to him. No, sir. If necessary, he will send to you, and he will see what can be done. Good night, Mrs. Parker. Then he walked across the room with two sovereigns, which he dropped in her hand. Mrs. Parker, with many sobs, bade him farewell, and Mr. Wharton stood in the hall, immovable to the front door that closed behind her. I have settled it, he said to Emily. I'll tell you tomorrow or some day. Don't worry yourself now, but go to bed. She looked wistfully, so sadly, up into his face, and then did as he bade her. But Mr. Wharton could not go to bed without further trouble. It was incumbent on him to write full particulars that very night, both to Mr. Walker and to Mr. Crumpy. And the odious letters in the writing became very long, odious because he had to confess in them over and over again that his daughter, the very apple of his eye, had been the wife of a scoundrel. To Mr. Walker he had to tell the whole story of the alleged forgery, and in doing so could not abstain from the use of hard words. I don't suppose that it can be proved, but there is every reason to believe that it is true. And again, I believe the man to have been as vile a scoundrel as ever was made by the love of money. Even to Mr. Crumpy he would not be reticent. She is an object of pity, he said.  Then he betook himself to bed. Oh, how happy he would be to pay the two pounds weekly. Even to add to that the amount of the forged bill, if by doing so he might be saved from ever again hearing the name of Lopez. The amount of the bill was ultimately lost by the bankers who had advanced money on it. As for Mrs. Sexty Parker, from week to week and from month to month and at last from year to year, she and her children, and probably her husband also, were supported by the weekly pension of two sovereigns which she always received on Thursday morning from the hands of Mr. Crumpy himself. In a little time the one excitement of her life was the weekly journey to Mr. Crumpy, whom she came to regard as a man appointed by Providence to supply her with forty s on Thursday morning. As to poor Sexty Parker, it is to be feared that he never again became a prosperous man. You will tell me what you did for that poor woman, Papa, said Emily, leaning over her father in the train. I have settled it, my dear. You said you'd tell me. Crumpy will pay her two pounds a week till we know more about it. Emily pressed her father's hand and that was an end. No one ever did know any more about it, and Crumpy continued to pay the money. End of Chapter 69 of The Prime Minister. When Mr. Wharton that his daughter reached Wharton Hall, there were at any rate no fletches there as yet. Emily, as she was driven from the station to the house, had not dared to ask a question or even to prompt her father to do so. He would probably have told her that on such an occasion there was but little chance that she would find any visitors, and none at all that she would find Arthur Fletcher. But she was too confused and too ill at ease to think of probabilities, and to the last was intrepidation, especially lest she should meet her lover. She found, however, at Wharton Hall, none but Wharton's, and she found also to her great relief that this change in the air relieved her of much of the attention which must otherwise have added to her troubles. At the first glance her dress and demeanour struck them so forcibly that they could not avoid showing their feeling. Of course they had expected to see her in black, had expected to see her in widow's weeds. But with her her very face and limbs had so adapted themselves to her crepe that she looked like a monument of bereaved woe. Lady Wharton took the mourner up into her own room, and there made her a little speech. "'We have all wept for you,' she said, and grieve for you still. But excessive grief is wicked, especially in the young. We will do our best to make you happy and hope we shall succeed. All this about dear Everett ought to be a comfort to you.' Emily promised that she would do her best, not, however, taking much immediate comfort from the prospects of dear Everett. Lady Wharton certainly had never in her life spoken of dear Everett while the wicked cousin was alive. Then Mary Wharton also made her little speech. "'Dear Emily, I will do all that I can. Pray try to believe in me.' But Everett was so much the hero of the hour that there was not much room for general attention to any one else. There was very much room for triumph in regard to Everett. It had already been ascertained that the Wharton who was now dead had had a child, but that the child was a daughter. Oh, what salvation and destruction there may be to an English gentleman in the sex of an infant!  Had it by chance been a boy, Everett Wharton would have been nobody, and the child, rescued from the iniquities of his parents, would have been nursed in the best bedroom of Wharton Hall, and cherished with the warmest kisses, and would have been the centre of all the hopes of all the Whartons. But the Wharton lawyer, by use of reckless telegrams, had certified himself that the infant was a girl, and Everett was the hero of the day. He found himself to be possessed of a thousand graces, even in his father's eyesight. It seemed to be taken as a mark of a special good fortune that he had not clung to any business. To have been a banker immersed in the making of money, or even a lawyer attached to his circuit at his court, would have lessened his fitness, or at any rate his readiness, for the duties which he would have to perform. He would never be a very rich man, but he would have a command of ready money, and of course he would go into Parliament. In his new position as, not quite head of the family, but head expectant, it seemed to him to be his duty to lecture his sister. It might be well that someone should lecture her with more severity than her father used. Undoubtedly she was succumbing to the wretchedness of her position in a manner that was repugnant to humanity generally. There is no power so useful to a man as that capacity of recovering himself after a fall, which belongs especially to those who possess a healthy mind and a healthy body. It is not rare to see one, generally a woman, whom a sorrow gradually kills, and there are those among us who hardly perhaps envy, but certainly admire, a spirit so delicate as to be snuffed out by a woe. But it is the weakness of the heart rather than the strength of the feeling, which has in such cases most often produced the destruction. Some endurance of fiber has been wanting which power of endurance is a noble attribute. Robert Wharton saw something of this, and being now the heir apparent of the family, took his sister to task. Emily, he said, you make us all unhappy when we look at you. Do I, she said, I am sorry for that, but why should you look at me? Because you were one of us. Of course we cannot shake you off. We would not if we could. We have all been very unhappy because of what has happened. But don't you think you ought to make some sacrifice to us? To our father, I mean, and to Sir Alurid and Lady Wharton? When you go on weeping, other people have to weep, too. I have an idea that people ought to be happy if it be only for the sake of their neighbors. What am I to do, Everett? Talk to people a little, and smile sometimes. Move about quicker. Don't look when you come into a room as if you were consecrated to get the tears. And if I may venture to say so, drop something of the heaviness of your mourning.  No, I mean nothing of the kind. You know I don't. But you may exert yourself for the benefit of others without being untrue to your own memories. I'm sure you know what I mean. Make a struggle, and see if you cannot do something. She did make a struggle, and she did do something. No one, not well versed in the mysteries of feminine dress, could say very accurately what it was that she had done, but everyone felt that something of the weight was reduced. At first, as her brother's words came upon her ear, and as she had felt the blows which they inflicted on her, she accused him in her heart of cruelty. They were very hard to bear. There was a moment in which she was almost tempted to turn upon him and tell him that he knew nothing of her sorrows. But she restrained herself, and when she was alone she acknowledged to herself that he had spoken the truth. No one has a right to go around the world as a niobi, damping all joys with selfish tears. What did she not owe to her father, who would warn her so often against the evil she had contemplated, and had then, from the first moment after the fault was done, forgiven her the doing of it? She had at any rate learned from her misfortunes the infinite tenderness of his heart, which in the days of their unalloyed prosperity he had never felt the necessity of exposing to her. So she struggled and did do something. She pressed Lady Wharton's hand and kissed her cousin Mary, and throwing herself into her father's arms when they were alone, whispered to him that she would try. What you told me, Everett, was quite right, she said afterwards to her brother. I didn't mean to be savage, he answered with a smile. It was quite right, and I have thought of it, and I will do my best. I will keep it to myself if I can. It is not quite, perhaps, what you think it is, but I will keep it to myself. She fancied they did not understand her, and perhaps she was right.  It was not only that her love had been misbestowed, not only that she had made so grievous an error in the one great act of her life, which she had chosen to perform on her own judgment. Perhaps the most crushing memory of all was that which told her that she, who had through all her youth been regarded as a bright star in the family, had been the one person to bring a reproach upon the name of all these people who were so good to her. How shall a person conscious of disgrace, with a mind capable of feeling the crushing weight of personal disgrace, move and look and speak as though that disgrace had been washed away? But she made the struggle, and did not altogether fail. As regarded, Sir Alurid, in spite of this poor widow's crepe, he was very happy at this time, and his joy did in some degree communicate itself to the old barrister. Everett was taken round to every tenant and introduced as the air. Mr. Wharton had already declared his purpose of abdicating any possible possession of the property. Should he outlive Sir Alurid, he must be the baronet, but when that sad event should take place, whether Mr. Wharton should then be alive or no, Everett should at once be the possessor of Wharton Hall. Sir Alurid, under these circumstances, discussed his own death with extreme satisfaction, and insisted on having it discussed by the others. That he should have gone and left everything at the mercy of the spendthrift had been terrible to his old heart. But now the man coming to the property would have sixty thousand pounds with which to support and foster Wharton, with which to mend, as it were, the crevices, and stop up the holes of the estate. He seemed to be almost impatient for Everett's ownership, giving many hints as to what should be done when he himself was gone. He must surely have thought that he would return to Wharton as his spirit, and take a ghostly share in the prosperity of the farms. You will find John Griffith, the very good man, said the baronet. John Griffith had been a tenant on the estate for the last half century, and was an older man than his landlord. But the baronet spoke of all this, as though he himself were about to leave Wharton forever in the course of the next week. John Griffith has been a good man, and if not always quite ready with his rent, has never been much behind. You won't be hard on John Griffith. I hope I may have the opportunity, sir. Well, well, well, that's as may be. But I don't quite know what to say about young John. The farm has gone from father to son, and there's never been a word of a lease. Is there anything wrong about the young man? He's a little given to poaching. Oh, dear. I've always got him off for his father's sake. They say he's going to marry Sally Jones. That may take it out of him. I do like the farms to go from father to son, Everett. It's the way that everything should go. Of course there's no right. Nothing of that kind, I suppose, said Everett, who was in his way a reformer, and had radical notions with which he would not for worlds have disturbed the baronet at present. No, nothing of that kind. God and his mercy forbid that a landlord in England should ever be robbed after that fashion. Sir Allured, when he was uttering this prayer, was thinking of what he had heard of an Irish land bill, the details of which however had been altogether incomprehensible to him. But I have a feeling about it, Everett, and I hope you will share it. It is good the thing should go from father to son. I never make a promise, but the tenants know what I think about it, and then the father works for the son. Why should he work for a stranger? Sally Jones is a very good young woman, and perhaps young John will do better. There was not a field or a fence that he did not show to his heir, hardly a tree which he left without a word. That bit of woodland coming in there, they call it barnt and spinnies, doesn't belong to the estate at all. This, he said, in a melancholy tone. Isn't it, really? And it comes right in between Lane's farm and Puddox. They've always let me have the shooting as a compliment. Not that there's ever anything in it. It's only seven acres. But I like this ability. Who does it belong to? It belongs to Bennett. What, Corpus Christi? Yes, yes, they've changed the name. It used to be Bennett in my days. Walker says the college would certainly sell, but you'd have to pay for the land and wood separately. I don't know that you'd get much out of it, but it's very unsightly on the survey map, I mean. Well, buy it by all means, said Everett, who was already jingling his 60,000 pounds in his pocket. I never had the money, but I think it should be bought. And Sir Allure had rejoiced in the idea that when his ghost should look at the survey map, that hiatus of barnt and spinnies would not trouble his spectral eyes. In this way, months ran on at Wharton. Our Whartons had come down at the latter half of August. And at the beginning of September, Mr. Wharton returned to London. Everett, of course, remained, as he was still learning the lesson of which he was in truth, becoming a little weary. And at last Emily had been also persuaded to stay in Herefordshire. Her father promised to return, not mentioning any precise time, but giving her to understand that he would come before the winter. He went and probably found that his taste for the Eldon and for Whist had returned to him. In the middle of November, old Mrs. Fletcher arrived. Emily was not aware of what was being done. But in truth the Fletchers and Whartons combined were conspiring with the view of bringing her back to her former self. Mrs. Fletcher had not yielded without some difficulty, for it was a part of this conspiracy that Arthur was to be allowed to marry the widow. But John had prevailed. He'll do it any way, mother, he had said, whether you and I like it or not, and why on earth shouldn't he do as he pleases. Think what that man was, John. It's more to the purpose to think of what the woman is. Arthur has made up his mind, and if I know him he's not the man to be talked out of it. And so the old woman had given in and had at last consented to go forward as the advanced guard of the Fletchers and lay siege to the affections of the woman whom she had once so thoroughly discarded from her heart. My dear, she said, when they first met, if there has been anything wrong between you and me, let it be among the things that are past. You always used to kiss me. Give me a kiss now. Of course, Emily kissed her, and after that Mrs. Fletcher patted her and petted her, and gave her lozenges which she declared in private to be the sovereignest thing on earth for debilitated nerves. And then it came out by degrees that John Fletcher and his wife and all the little Fletchers were coming to Wharton for the Christmas weeks. Everett had gone and was also to be back for Christmas, and Mr. Wharton's visit was also postponed. It was absolutely necessary that Everett should be at Wharton for the Christmas festivities and expedient that Everett's father should be there to see them. In this way Emily had no means of escape. Her father wrote telling her of his plans, saying that he would bring her back after Christmas. Everett's airship had made these Christmas festivities, which were, however, to be confined to the two families quite a necessity. In all this not a word was said about Arthur, nor did she dare to ask whether he was expected. The younger Mrs. Fletcher, John's wife, opened her arms to the widow in a manner that said almost plainly that she regarded Emily as her future sister-in-law. John Fletcher talked to her about long-barns and the children, complete Fletcher talk, as though she were already one of them, never, however, mentioning Arthur's name. The old lady got down a fresh supply of lozenges from London, because though she had by her might perhaps be a little stale. And then there was another sign which, after a while, became plain to Emily. No one in either family ever mentioned her name. It was not singular that none of them should call her Mrs. Lopez, as she was Emily to all of them. But they never so described her even in speaking to the servants. And the servants themselves, as far as possible, avoided the odious word. The thing was to be buried, if not an oblivion, yet in some speechless grave. And it seemed that her father was joined in this attempt, and writing to her he usually made some excuse for writing also to Everett, or in Everett's absence to the Baronet, so that the letter for his daughter might be enclosed and addressed simply Emily. She understood it all, and though she was moved to continual solitary tears by this ineffable tenderness, yet she rebelled against them, they should never cheat her back into happiness by such wiles as that. It was not fit that she should yield to them. As a woman utterly disgraced, it could not become her again to laugh and be joyful, to give and take loving embraces, to sit and smile, perhaps a happy mother, at another man's hearth. For their love she was grateful. For his love she was more than grateful. How constant must be his heart, how grand his nature, how more than manly his strength of character, when he was thus true to earth through all the evil she had done? Love him? Yes. She would pray for him, worship him, fill the remainder of her days with thinking of him, hoping for him, and making his interests her own. Should he ever be married, and she would pray that he might, his wife, if possible, should be her friend, his children should be her darlings, and he should always be her hero. But they should not, with all their schemes, cheat her into disgracing him by marrying him. At last her father came, and it was he who told her that Arthur was expected on the day before Christmas. Why did you not tell me before, Papa, so that I might have asked you to take me away? Because I thought, my dear, that it was better that you should be constrained to meet him. You would not wish to live all your life in terror of seeing Arthur Fletcher? Not all my life. Take the plunge, and it will be over. They have all been very good to you. Too good, Papa, I didn't want it. They are our oldest friends. There isn't a young man in England, I think so highly of, as John Fletcher. When I am gone, where are you to look for friends? I'm not ungrateful, Papa. You can't know them all, and yet keep yourself altogether separated from Arthur. Think what it would be to me never to be able to ask him to the house. He is the only one of the family that lives in London, and now it seems that Everett will spend most of his time down here. Of course, it is better that you should meet him and have done with it. There was no answer to be made to this, but still she was fixed in her resolution that she would never meet him as her lover. Then came the morning of the day on which she was to arrive, and his coming was for the first time spoken openly of at breakfast. How is Arthur to be brought from the station? asked old Mrs. Fletcher. I'm going to take the dog cart, said Everett. Giles will go for the luggage with the pony. He is bringing down a lot of things, a new saddle and the gun for me. It had all been arranged for her, this question and answer, and Emily blushed as she felt that it was so. We shall be so glad to see Arthur, said young Mrs. Fletcher to her. Of course you will. He has not been down since the session was over, and he has got to be quite a speaking man now. I do hope he'll become something some day. I'm sure he will, said Emily. Not a judge, however.  Perhaps he might be Lord Chancellor in time. Mrs. Fletcher was not more ignorant than some other ladies in being unaware of the Lord Chancellor's wig and exact position. At last he came. The 9 a.m. express for Hereford, express at least for the first two or three hours out of London, brought passengers for Wharton to the nearest station at 3 p.m., and the distance was not above five miles. Before four o'clock Arthur was standing before the drawing room fire, with a cup of tea in his hand surrounded by Fletcher's and Wharton's, and being made much of as the young family member of Parliament. But Emily was not in the room. She had studied her Bradshaw, and had learned the hours of the trains, and was now in her bedroom. He had looked around the moment he entered the room, but had not dared to ask for her, suddenly. He had said one word about her to Everett in the cart, and that had been all. She was in the house, and he must at any rate see her before dinner. Emily, in order that she might not seem to escape her abruptly, had retired early to her solitude. But she, too, knew that the meeting could not long be postponed. She sat thinking of it all, and at last heard the wheels of the vehicle before the door. She paused, listening with all her ears, that she might recognize his voice, or possibly his footstep. She stood near the window behind the curtain, with her hand pressed to her heart. She heard Everett's voice plainly as he gave some direction to the groom. But from Arthur she heard nothing. Yet she was sure that he was come, the very manner of the approach, and her brother's word had made her certain that there had been no disappointment. She stood thinking for a quarter of an hour, making up her mind how best they might meet. Then suddenly, with slow but certain step, she walked down into the drawing-room. No one expected her then, or something perhaps might have been done to encourage her coming. It had been thought that she must meet him before dinner, and her absence till then was to be excused. But now she opened the door, and with much dignity of mean walked into the middle of the room. Arthur at that moment was discussing the duke's chances for the next session, and Sir Allured was asking with rapture whether the old conservative party would not come in. Arthur Fletcher heard the step, turned round, and saw the woman he loved. He went at once to meet her very quickly and put out both his hands. She gave him hers, of course. There was no excuse for her refusal. He stood for an instant pressing them, looking eagerly into her sad face, and then he spoke.  God bless you. He had thought of no words, and at the moment nothing else occurred to him to be said. The colour had covered all his face, and his heart beat so strongly that he was hardly his own master. She let him hold her two hands, perhaps for a minute, and then bursting into tears tore herself from him, and hurrying out of the room made her way again into her own chamber. It will be better so, said old Mrs. Fletcher. It will be better so. Do not let anyone follow her. On that day John Fletcher took her out the dinner, and Arthur did not sit near her. In the evening he came to her as she was working close to his mother, and seated himself on a low chair, close to her knees. We are all so glad to see you. Are we not, mother? Yes indeed, said Mrs. Fletcher. Then after a while the old woman got up to make a rubber at wist with the two old men, and her eldest son, leaving Arthur sitting at the widow's knee. She would willingly have escaped, but it was impossible that she should move. You need not be afraid of me, he said, not whispering, but in a voice which no one else could hear. Do not seem to avoid me, and I will say nothing to trouble you. I think that you must wish that we should be friends. Oh, yes. Come out, then, tomorrow, when we are walking. In that way we shall get used to each other. You are troubled now, and I will go. And he left her, and she felt herself to be bound to him by infinite gratitude. A week went on, and she had become used to his company. A week passed, and he had spoken no word to her that her brother might not have spoken. They had walked together when no one else had been within hearing, and yet he had spared her. She had begun to think that he would spare her altogether, and she was certainly grateful. Might it not be that she had misunderstood him, and had misunderstood the meaning of them all? Might it not be that she had troubled herself with false anticipations? Surely it was so, for how could it be that such a man should wish to make such a woman his wife? Well, Arthur, said his brother to him one day. I have nothing to say about it, said Arthur. You haven't changed your mind? Never, upon my word, to me, in that dress she is more beautiful than ever. I wish you would make her take it off. I dare not ask her yet.  That is all very well when one talks about widows in general. It is easy to chat about women when one hasn't got any woman in one's mind. But as it is now, having her here, loving her as I do by heaven, I cannot hurry her. I don't dare to speak to her after that fashion. I shall do it in time, I suppose. But I must wait until the time comes. End of Chapter 70. Chapter 71 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. Recording by Leanne Howlett. The Prime Minister by Antony Trollop. Chapter 71. The Ladies at Long Barns Doubt. It came at last to be decided among them that when old Mr. Wharton returned to town, and he had now been at Wharton longer than he had ever been known to remain there before, Emily should still remain in her for sure, and that at some period not then fixed she should go for a month to Long Barns. There were various reasons which induced her to consent to this change of plans. In the first place she found herself to be infinitely more comfortable in the country than in town. She could go out and move about and bestow herself. Whereas in Manchester Square she could only sit and mope at home. Her father had assured her that he thought that it would be better that she should be away from the reminiscences of the house and town. And then when the first week of February was passed, Arthur would be up in town, and she would be far away from him at Long Barns, whereas in London she would be close within his reach. Many little schemes were laid and struggles made both by herself and the others before at last their plans were settled. Mr. Wharton was to return to London in the middle of January. It was quite impossible that he could remain longer away either from stone buildings or from the Eldon, and then at the same time or a day or two following Mrs. Fletcher was to go back to Long Barns. John Fletcher and his wife and children were already gone, and Arthur also had been at Long Barns. The two brothers and Everett had been backwards and forwards. Emily was anxious to remain at Wharton at any rate till Parliament should have met, so that she might not be at home with Arthur in his own house. But matters would not arrange themselves exactly as she wished. It was at last settled that she should go to Long Barns with Mary Wharton under the charge of John Fletcher in the first week in February. As arrangements were already in progress for the purchase of Barton's pennies, Sir Allured could not possibly leave his own house. Not to have walked through the wood on the first day that it became a part of the Wharton property would to him have been treasoned to the estate. His experience ought to have told him that there was no chance of a lawyer and a college dealing together with such rapidity, but in the present state of things he could not bear to absent himself. Orders had already been given for the cutting down of certain trees which could not have been touched had the reprobate lived, and it was indispensable that if a tree fell at Wharton he should see the fall. It thus came to pass that there was a week during which Emily would be forced to live under the roof of the Fletchers together with Arthur Fletcher. The week came and she was absolutely received by Arthur at the door of Long Barns. She had not been at the house since it had first been intimated to the Fletchers that she was disposed to receive with favor the addresses of Furton and Lopez. As she remembered this it seemed to her to be an age ago since that man had induced her to believe that of all men she had ever met he was the nearest to a hero. She never spoke of him now, but of course her thoughts of him were never ending, as also of herself in that she had allowed herself to be so deceived. She would recall to her mind with bitter inward sobbing all those lessons of iniquity which she had striven to teach her and which had first opened her eyes to his true character. How sedulously he had endeavored to persuade her that it was her duty to rob her father on his behalf. How continually he had endeavored to make her think that appearance in the world was everything and that being in truth poor adventurers it behoved them to cheat the world into thinking them rich and respectable. Every hint that had been so given had been a wound to her and those wounds were all now remembered. Though since his death she had never allowed a word to be spoken in her presence against him she could not but hate his memory.  During the various lessons she had learned in her married life she had become gradually but surely aware that the face of that other man had been dishonest. She had learned the false meaning of every glance of his eyes, the subtlety of his mouth, the counterfeit maneuvers of his body, the deceit even of his dress.  And here was this man, spotless in her estimation, compounded of all good qualities which she could now see and take at their proper value. She hated herself for the simplicity with which she had been cheated by soft words and a false demeanor into so great a sacrifice. Life at long barns was very quiet during the days which she passed there before he left them. She was frequently along with him, but he, if he still loved her, did not speak of his love. He explained it all one day to his mother. "'If it is to be,' said the old lady, I don't see the use of more delay. Of course the marriage ought not to be till March twelve months, but if it is understood that it is to be, she might alter her dress by degrees and alter her manner of living. Those things should always be done by degrees. I think it had better be settled, Arthur, if it is to be settled. I am afraid, mother. Dear me, I didn't think you were the man ever to be afraid of a woman. What can she say to you?' Refuse me. Then you'd better know it at once, but I don't think she'll be fool enough for that." Perhaps you hardly understand her, mother. Mrs. Fletcher shook her head with a look of considerable annoyance. Perhaps not. But to tell the truth, I don't like young women whom I can't understand. Young women shouldn't be mysterious. I like people of whom I can give a pretty good guess what they'll do. I'm sure I never could have guessed that she would have married that man. "'If you love me, mother, do not let that be mentioned between us again.' When I said that you did not understand her, I did not mean that she was mysterious. I think that before he died, and since his death, she learned of what sort that man was. I will not say that she hates his memory, but she hates herself for what she has done.' "'So she ought,' said Mrs. Fletcher. "'She has not yet brought herself to think that her life should be anything but one long period of mourning, not for him, but for her own mistake. You may be quite sure that I am an earnest. It is not because I doubt of myself that I put it off, but I fear that if once she asserts to me her resolution to remain as she is, she will fill herself bound to keep her word.' "'I suppose she is very much the same as other women after all, my dear,' said Mrs. Fletcher, who was almost jealous of the peculiar superiority of sentiment which her son seemed to attribute to this woman.' "'Circumstances, mother, make people different,' he replied. "'So you are going without having anything fixed?' His elder brother said to him the day before he started. "'Yes, old fellow, it seems to be rather slack, doesn't it? I dare say you know best what you are about, but if you have set your mind on it, you may take your oath on that. But I don't see why one word shouldn't put it all right. There never is any place so good for that kind of thing as a country house. I don't think that with her it will make much difference where the house is or what the circumstances. She knows what you mean as well as I do. I dare say she does, John. She must have a very bad idea of me if she doesn't, but she may know what I mean and not mean the same thing herself. How are you to know if you don't ask her? You may be sure that I shall ask her as soon as I can hope that my doing so may give her more pleasure than pain. Remember, I have had all this out with her father. I have determined that I will wait till twelve months have passed since that wretched man perished. On that afternoon before dinner he was alone with her in the library some minutes before they went up to dress for dinner. I shall hardly see you to-morrow, he said, as I must leave this at half past eight. I breakfasted eight. I don't suppose any one would be down except my mother. I am generally as early as that. I will come down and see you start. I am so glad that you have been here, Emily. So am I. Everybody has been so good to me. It has been like old days, almost. It will never quite be like old days again, I think. But I have been very glad to be here and at Wharton. I sometimes almost wish that I were never going back to London again, only for Papa. I like London myself. You? Yes, of course you like London. You have everything in life before you. You have things to do and much to hope for. It is all beginning for you, Arthur. I am five years older than you are. What does that matter? It seems to me that age does not go by years. It is long since I have felt myself to be an old woman. But you are quite young.  I don't know, said he. It is hard to say what makes a person happy. He almost made up his mind to speak to her then, but he had made up his mind before to put it off still for a little time, and he would not allow himself to be changed on the spur of the moment. He had thought of it much, and he had almost taught himself to think that it would be better for herself that she should not accept another man's love so soon. I shall come and see you in town, he said. You must come and see Papa. It seems that Everett is to be a great deal at Wharton. I had better go up to dress now, or I shall be keeping them waiting. He put out his hand to her and wished her good-bye, excusing himself by saying that they should not be alone together again before he started. She saw him go on the next morning, and then she almost felt herself to be abandoned, almost deserted. It was a fine crisp winter day, dry and fresh and clear, but with the frost still on the ground. After breakfast she went out to walk by herself in the long shrubbery paths, which went round the house, and here she remained for above an hour. She told herself that she was very thankful to him for not having spoken to her on a subject so unfit for her ears as love. She strengthened herself in her determination never again to listen to a man willingly on that subject. She had made herself unfit to have any dealings of that nature. It was not that she could not love. Oh, no! She knew well enough that she did love, love with all her heart. If it were not that she were so torn to rags that she was not fit to be worn again, she could now have thrown herself into his arms with a whole heaven of joy before her. A woman, she told herself, had no right to a second chance in life after having made such a shipwreck of herself in the first. But the danger of being seduced from her judgment by Arthur Fletcher was all over. He had been near her for the last week and had not spoken a word. He had been in the same house with her for the last ten days and had been with her as a brother might be with his sister. It was not only she who had seen the propriety of this. She also had acknowledged it, and she was grateful to him. As she endeavored in her solitude to express her gratitude in spoken words, the tears rolled down her cheeks. She was glad, she told herself, very glad that it was so. How much trouble and pain to both of them would thus be spared! And yet her tears were bitter tears. It was better as it was. And yet one word of love would have been very sweet. She almost thought that she would have liked to tell him that for his sake, for his dear sake, she would refuse, that which now would never be offered to her. She was quite clear as to the rectitude of her own judgment, clear as ever, and yet her heart was heavy with disappointment. It was the end of March before she left herfordshire for London, having spent the greater part of the time at Long Barns. The ladies at that place were moved by many doubts as to what would be the end of all this. Mrs. Fletcher the Elder, at last, almost taught herself to believe that there would be no marriage, and having got back to that belief, was again opposed to the idea of a marriage. Anything and everything that Arthur wanted he ought to have. The old lady felt no doubt as to that. When convinced that he did want to have this widow, this woman whose life had hitherto been so unfortunate, she had for his sake taken the woman again by the hand, and had assisted in making her one of themselves. But how much better it would be that Arthur should think better of it! It was the maddest constancy, this clinging to the widow of such a man as Ferdinand Lopez. If there were any doubt, then she would be prepared to do all she could to prevent the marriage. Emily had been forgiven, and the pardon bestowed must of course be continued. But she might be pardoned without being made, Mrs. Arthur Fletcher. While Emily was still at long barns, the old lady almost talked over her daughter-in-law to this way of thinking, till John Fletcher put his foot upon it altogether. I don't pretend to say what she may do, he said.  She'd jump at him if he looked at her with half an eye. What she may do, he continued saying, without appearing to listen to his mother, I cannot say, but that he will ask her to be his wife is as certain as that I stand here. CHAPTER 72 He thinks that our days are numbered. All the details of the New County Suffrage Bill were settled at matching during recess between Mr. Monk, Phineas Finn, and a very experienced gentleman from the Treasury, one Mr. Prime, who was supposed to know more about such things than any man living, and was consequently called Constitution Charlie. He was an elderly man, over sixty years of age, who remembered the first reform bill, and had been engaged in the doctoring of constituencies ever since. The bill, if passed, would be mainly his bill, and yet the world would never hear his name as connected with it. Let us hope that he was comfortable at matching, and that he found his consolation in the smiles of the Duchess. During this time the old Duke was away, and even the Prime Minister was absent for some days. He would feign have busied himself about the bill himself, but was hardly allowed by his colleagues to have any hand in framing it. The great points of the measure had, of course, been arranged in the Cabinet, where, however, Mr. Monk's views had been adopted almost without a change. It may not perhaps be too much to assume that one or two members of the Cabinet did not quite understand the full scope of every suggested clause. The effects which clauses will produce, the dangers which may be expected from this or that change, the manner in which this or that proposition will come out in the washing, do not strike even Cabinet ministers at a glance. A little study in a man's own Cabinet, after the reading perhaps of a few leading articles, and perhaps a short conversation with an astute friend or two, will enable a statesman to be strong at a given time for, or even if necessary against, a measure who has listened in silence, and has perhaps given his personal assent to the original suggestion. I doubt whether Lord Drummond, when he sat silent in the Cabinet, had realised those fears which weighed down upon him so strongly afterwards, or had then foreseen that the adoption of a nearly similar franchise with counties and boroughs must inevitably lead to the American system of numerical representation. But when time had been given him, and he and Satimathy had talked it all over, the mind of no man was ever clearer than that of Lord Drummond. The Prime Minister, with the diligence which belonged to him, had mastered all the details of Mr. Monk's bill before it was discussed in the Cabinet, and yet he found that his assistance was hardly needed in the absolute preparation. Had they allowed him he would have done it all himself, but it was assumed that he would not trouble himself in such work, and he perceived that he was not wanted. Nothing of moment was settled without a reference to him. He required that everything should be explained as it went on down to the extension of every borough boundary. But he knew that he was not doing it himself, and that Mr. Monk and Constitution Charlie had the prize between them. Nor did he dare to ask Mr. Monk what would be the fate of the bill, to devote all one's time and mind and industry to a measure which one knows will fall to the ground, must be sad. Work under such circumstances must be very grievous. But such is often the fate of statesmen. Whether Mr. Monk laboured under such conviction the Prime Minister did not know, though he saw his friend and colleague almost daily. In truth no one dared to tell him exactly what he thought. Even the old Duke had become partially reticent and taken himself off to his own woods at Long Royston. To Finneas Finn the Prime Minister would sometimes say a word, but would say even that timidly. On any abstract question, such as that which he had discussed when they had been walking together, he could talk freely enough. But on the matter of the day, those affairs which were of infinite importance to himself, and on which one would suppose he would take delight in speaking to a trusted colleague, he could not bring himself to be open. "'It must be a long bill,' I suppose,' he said to Finneas one day. "'I am afraid so, Duke. It will run knife here to over a hundred classes. It will take you the best part of the session to get through it. If we can have the Second Reading early in March, we hope to send it up to you in the first week in June. That will give us ample time.' "'Yes. Yes, I suppose so.' But he did not dare to ask Finneas Finn whether he thought that the House of Commons would assent to the Second Reading. It was known at this time that the Prime Minister was painfully anxious as to the fate of the ministry. It seemed to be but the other day that everybody connected with the government was living in fear lest he should resign. His threats in that direction had always been made to his old friend, the Duke of St. Bungie, but a great man cannot whisper his thoughts without having them carried in the air. In all the clubs it had been declared that that was the rock by which the coalition would probably be wrecked. The newspapers had repeated the story, and the people's banner had assured the world that if it were so, the Duke of Omnium would thus do for his country the only good service which it was possible that he should render it. That was at the time when Sir Orlando was mutinous, and when Lopez had destroyed himself. But now no such threat came from the Duke, and the people's banner was already accusing him of clinging to power with pertinacious and unconstitutional tenacity. Had not Sir Orlando deserted him, was it not well known that Lord Drummond and Sir Timothy Beeswax were only restrained from doing so by a mistaken loyalty? Everybody came up to town, Mr. Monk having his bill in his pocket, and the Queen's speech was read, promising the county suffrage bill. The address was voted with a very few words from either side. The battle was not to be fought then. Indeed the state of things was so abnormal that there could hardly be said to be any sides in the house. A stranger in the gallery, not knowing the condition of affairs, would have thought that no minister had for many years commanded so large a majority as the crowd of members was always on the government side of the house, but the opposition which Mr. Monk expected would he knew come from those who sat around him, behind him, and even at his very elbow. About a week after Parliament met the bill was read for the first time, and the second reading was appointed for an early day in March. The Duke had suggested to Mr. Monk the expedience of some further delay, giving us his reason the necessity of getting through certain routine work should the rejection of the bill create the confusion of a resignation. No one who knew the Duke could ever suspect him of giving a false reason. But it seemed that in this the Prime Minister was allowing himself to be harassed by fears of the future. Mr. Monk thought that any delay would be injurious and open to suspicion after what had been said and done, and was urgent in his arguments. The Duke gave way, but he did so almost sullenly, signifying his acquiescence with haughty silence. I am sorry, said Mr. Monk, to differ from your grace, but my opinion in the matter is so strong that I do not dare to abstain from expressing it. The Duke bowed again and smiled. He had intended that the smile should be acquiescent, but it had been as cold as steel. He knew that he was misbehaving, but was not sufficiently master of his own manner to be gracious. He told himself on the spot, though he was quite wrong in so telling himself, that he had now made an enemy also of Mr. Monk and through Mr. Monk of Phineas Finn. And now he felt that he had no friend left in whom to trust, for the old Duke had become cold and indifferent. The old Duke he thought was tired of his work and anxious for rest. It was the old Duke who had brought him into this hornet's nest, had fixed upon his back the unwilling load, had compelled him to assume the place which now to lose would be a disgrace, and the old Duke was now deserting him. He was sore all over, angry with everyone, ungracious even with his private secretary and his wife, and especially miserable, because he was thoroughly aware of his own faults. And yet, through it all, there was present to him a desire to fight on to the very last, that his colleagues do what they might and say what they might, he would remain Prime Minister of England as long as he was supported by a majority of the House of Commons. "'I do not know any greater staff than this,' Phineas said to him pleasantly one day, speaking of their new measure, "'towards that millennium of which we were talking at matching, if we can only accomplish it.' "'Those moral speculations, Mr. Finn,' he said, "'will hardly bear the wear and tear of real life.'" The words of the answer, combined with the manner in which they were spoken, were stern and almost uncivil. Phineas at any rate had done nothing to offend him. The Duke paused, trying to find some expression by which he might correct the injury he had done, but not finding any passed on without further speech. Phineas shrugged his shoulders and went his way, telling himself that he had received one further injunction, not to put his trust in princes. "'We shall be beaten, certainly,' said Mr. Monk, to Phineas, not long afterwards. "'What makes you so sure?' "'I smell it in the air, I see it in men's faces. "'And yet it's a moderate bill, they'll have to pass something stronger if for long if they throw it out now. It's not the bill that they'll reject, but us. We have served our turn, and we ought to go.' The house is tired of the Duke. "'The Duke is so good a man that I hardly like to admit even that. But I fear it is so. He is fretful, and he makes enemies. I sometimes think that he is ill.  He cannot hide his chagrin, and then is doubly wretched, because he has betrayed it. I do not know that I ever respected, and at the same time pitied a man more thoroughly. He snobbed me awfully yesterday,' said Phineas, laughing. "'He cannot help himself. He snubs me at every word that he speaks. And yet I believe that he is most anxious to be civil to me. His ministry has been of great service to the country. For myself I shall never regret having joined it. But I think that to him it has been a continual sorrow. The system on which the Duchess had commenced her career as wife of the Prime Minister had now been completely abandoned. In the first place she had herself become so weary of it that she had been unable to continue the exertion. She had, too, become in some degree ashamed of her failures. The names of Major Poutney and Mr. Lopez were not now pleasant to her ears, nor did she look back with satisfaction on the courtesies she had lavished on Sir Orlando, or the smiles she had given to Sir Timothy B's wax. "'I've known a good many vulgar people in my time,' she said one day to Mrs. Phine, "'but none ever so vulgar as our ministerial supporters. You don't remember Mr. Bott, my dear. He was before your time, one of the arithmetical men and a great friend of Plantagenets. He was very bad, but there have come up worse since him. Sometimes I think I like a little vulgarity for a change, but upon my honour when we get rid of all this it will be a pleasure to go back to ladies and gentlemen.' This the duchess said in her extreme bitterness. "'It seems to me that you have pretty well got rid of all this already.' "'But I haven't got anybody else in their place. I've almost made up my mind not to ask anyone into the house for the next twelve months. I used to think that nothing would ever knock me up, but now I feel that I'm almost done for. I hardied out over my mouth to Plantagenet. The Duke of St. Bungie has cut me. Mr. Monk looks as ominous as an owl, and your husband hasn't a word to say left. Barrington Earl hides his face and passes by when he sees me, and Mr. Rattler did try to confront me the other day by saying that everything was at sixes and sevens, and I really took it almost as a compliment to be spoken to. Don't you think Plantagenet is ill?' A man may be worn by care till there comes to be nothing left of him, but he never speaks of giving up now. The old Bishop of St. Austel talks of resigning, and he has already made up his mind who is to have the sea. He used to consult the Duke about all these things, but I don't think he ever consults anyone now. He never forgave the Duke about Lord Earlybird. Certainly if a man wants to quarrel with all his friends and to double the hatred of all his enemies he had better become Prime Minister. Are you really sorry that such was his fate, Lady Glen? Ah! I sometimes ask myself that question, but I never get as an answer. I should have thought him a paltrune if he had declined. It is to be the greatest man in the greatest country in the world. Do ever so little, and the men who write history must write about you, and no man has ever tried to be nobler than he till—till—make no exception. If he be care-worn and ill and weary his manners cannot be the same as they were, but his purity is the same as ever. I don't know that it would remain so. I believe in him more than in any man, but I believe in none thoroughly. There is a devil creeps in upon them when their hands are strengthened. I do not know what I would have wished. Whatever I do wish I always wish wrong. Ah! Me! When I think of all those people I had down at Gatherham, of the trouble I took and of the glorious anticipation in which I have reveled, I do feel ashamed of myself. Do you remember when I was determined that that wretch should be a member for Silverbridge? You haven't seen her since, Duchess? No, but I mean to see her. I couldn't make our first husband member, and therefore the man who is member is to be her second husband.  Ah! Dear, I wish I knew something that was really pleasant to do. I have never really enjoyed anything since I was in love, and I only liked that because it was wicked. The Duchess was wrong in saying that the Duke of St. Bungie had cut them. The old man still remembered the kiss and still remembered the pledge, but he had found it very difficult to maintain his old relations with his friend. It was his opinion that the coalition had done all that was wanted from it, and that now had come the time when they might retire gracefully. It is no doubt hard for a prime minister to find an excuse for going. But if the Duke of Omnium would have been content to acknowledge that he was not the man to alter the county suffrage, an excuse might have been found that would have been injurious to no one. Mr. Monk and Mr. Gresham might have joined, and the present prime minister might have resigned, explaining that he had done all that he had been appointed to accomplish. He had, however, yielded at once to Mr. Monk, and now it was to be feared that the House of Commons would not accept the bill from his hands. In such a state of things, especially after that disagreement about Lord Earlybird, it was difficult for the old Duke to tender his advice. He was at every cabinet council. He always came when his presence was required. He was invariably good-humoured. But it seemed to him that his work was done. He could hardly volunteer to tell his chief and his colleague that he would certainly be beaten in the House of Commons, and that therefore there was little more now to be done than to arrange the circumstances of their retirement. Nevertheless, as the period for the second reading of the bill came on, he resolved that he would discuss the matter with his friend. He owed it to himself to do so, and he also owed it to the man whom he had certainly placed in his present position. On himself, politics had imposed a burden very much lighter than that which they had inflicted on his more energetic and much less practical colleague. Through his long life he had either been in office, or in such a position that men were sure that he would soon return to it. He had taken it when it had come willingly, and had always left it without a regret. As a man cut scene and out at a wist-table, and enjoys both the game and the rest from the game, so had the Duke of St. Bungie been well pleased in either position. He was patriotic, but his patriotism did not disturb his digestion. He had been ambitious, but moderately ambitious, and his ambition had been gratified. It never occurred to him to be unhappy because he or his party were beaten on a measure. When president of the council he could do his duty and enjoy London life, when in opposition he could linger in Italy till May and devote his leisure to his trees and his bullocks. He was always esteemed, always self-satisfied, and always Duke of St. Bungie. But with our Duke it was very different. Everyone with him was a fever, and the public service an exacting mistress. As long as this had been all, he had still been happy. Not trusting much in himself, he had never aspired to great power. But now, now at last, ambition had laid hold of him, and the feeling, not perhaps uncommon with such men, that personal dishonour would be attached to political failure. What was his future life be if he had so carried himself in his great office as to have shown himself to be unfit to resume it? His or to any office had surprised him in which he might be useful, but now he must either be prime minister or a silent, obscure, and humbled man. Dear Duke, I will be with you to-morrow morning at eleven a.m., if you can give me half an hour. Yours affectionately, St. B. The Prime Minister received this note, one afternoon, a day or two before that, appointed for the second reading, and meeting his friend within an hour at the House of Lords, confirmed the appointment. Shall I not rather come to you? he said. But the old Duke, who lived in St. James's Square, declared that Carlton Terrace would be in his way to Downing Street, and so the matter was settled. Only at eleven the two ministers met. I don't like troubling you, said the old man, when I know that you have so much to think of. On the contrary I have but little to think of, and my thoughts must be very much engaged indeed when they shall be too full to admit of my seeing you. Of course, we are all anxious about this bill. The Prime Minister smiled. Anxious! Yes indeed, his anxiety was of such a nature that it kept him awake all night, and never for a moment left his mind free by day. And of course we must be prepared as to what shall be done, either in the event of success or of failure. You might as well read that, said the other. It only reached me this morning, or I should have told you of it. The letter was a communication from the Solicitor General, containing his resignation. He had now studied the county suffrage bill closely, and regretted to say that he could not give it a conscientious support. It was a matter of sincerest sorrow to him that relations so pleasant should be broken, but he must resign his place, unless indeed the clauses as to redistribution could be withdrawn. Of course he did not say this as expecting that any such concession would be made to his opinion, but merely as indicating the matter on which his objection was so strong as to overrule all other considerations. All this he explained at great length. The pleasantness of the relations must have been on one side, said the veteran. He ought to have gone long since. And Lord Drummond has already as good as said that, unless we will abandon the same clauses, he must oppose the bill in the lords. And resign, of course. He meant that, I presume. Lord Ramston has not spoken to me. The clauses will not stick in his throat, nor ought they. If the lawyers have their own way about law, they should be contented. The question is whether in these circumstances we should postpone the second reading, asked the Prime Minister. Certainly not, said the other Duke. As to the Solicitor-General you will have no difficulty. Sir Timothy was only placed there as a concession to his party. Drummond will no doubt continue to hold his office till we can see what is done in the lower house. If the second reading be lost there, why then his lordship can go with the rest of us? Rattler says we shall have a majority. He and Roby are quite agreed about it. Between them they must know, said the Prime Minister, unintentionally pleading for himself. They ought to know, if any men do. But the crisis is exceptional. I suppose you think that if the second reading is lost we should resign. Oh, certainly. Or after that if the bill be much mutilated in committee. I don't know that I shall personally break my own heart about the bill. The existing difference in the suffrages is rather in accordance with my prejudices. But the country desires the measure, and I suppose we cannot consent to any such material alteration as these men suggest. As he spoke he laid his hand on Sir Timothy's letter. Mr. Monk would not hear of it, said the Prime Minister. Of course not. And you and I in this measure must stick to Mr. Monk. My great, indeed my only strong desire in the matter, is to act in strict unison with you. You are always good and true, Duke. For my own part I shall not in the least regret to find in all this an opportunity of resigning. We have done our work, and if, as I believe, a majority of the house would again support either Gresham or Monk as the head of the entire Liberal Party, I think that that arrangement would be for the welfare of the country. Why should it make any difference to you? Why should you not return to the Council? I should not do so. Certainly not at once. Probably never. But you, who are in the very prime of your life—the Prime Minister did not smile now. He knit his brows, and a dark shadow came across his face. I don't think I could do that, he said. Caesar could hardly have led a legion under Pompey. It has been done, greatly to the service of the country, and without the slightest loss of honour or character in him who did it. We need hardly talk of that, Duke. You think, then, that we shall fail—fail, I mean, in the House of Commons. I do not know that failure in our house should be regarded as fatal. In three cases we should fail. The loss of any material clause in committee would be as bad as the loss of the Bill. Oh, yes! And then, in spite of Messrs Rattler and Roby, who have been wrong before and may be wrong now, we may lose the second reading. And the third chance against us? You would not probably try to carry on the Bill with a very small majority. Not with three or four. Nor, I think, with six or seven. It would be useless. My own belief is that we shall never carry the Bill into committee. I have always known you to be right, Duke. I think that general opinion has set in that direction. And general opinion is generally right. Having come to that conclusion, I thought it best to tell you, in order that we might have our house in order. The Duke of Omnium, who, with all his haughtiness and all his reserve, was the simplest man in the world and the least apt to pretend to be that which he was not, sighed deeply when he heard this. For my own part, continued his elder, I feel no regret that it should be so. It is the first large measure that we have tried to carry. We did not come in to carry large measures, my friend. Look back and see how many large measures Pitt carried. And he took the country safely through its most dangerous crisis. What have we done? Carried on the Queen's government prosperously for three years. Is that nothing for a minister to do? I have never been a friend of great measures, knowing that when they come fast one after another, more is broken in the rattle than is repaired by the reform. We have done what Parliament and the country expected us to do. And my poor judgment, we have done it well. I do not feel much self-satisfaction, Duke. Well, we must see it out, and if it is as you anticipate, I shall be ready. Of course I have prepared myself for it, and if, of late, my mind has been less turned to retirement than it used to be, it has only been because I have become wedded to this measure and have wished that it should be carried under our auspices. Then the old Duke took his leave, and the Prime Minister was left alone to consider the announcement that had been made to him. He had said that he had prepared himself, but in so saying he had hardly known himself. He the too, though he had been troubled by many doubts, he had still hoped. The report made to him by Mr. Rattler, backed as it had been by Mr. Roby's assurances, had almost deficed to give him confidence. But Mr. Rattler and Mr. Roby combined, whereas nothing, to the Duke of St. Bungie. The Prime Minister knew now, he felt that he knew, that his days were numbered. The resignation of that lingering old bishop was not completed, and the person in whom he believed would not have the sea. He had meditated the making of a pier or two, having the two been very cautious in that respect, but he would do nothing of the kind if called upon by the House of Commons to resign with an uncompleted measure. But his thought soon ran away from the present to the future. What was now to come of himself? How should he use his future life? He who as yet had not passed his forty-seventh year. He regretted much, having made that apparently pretentious speech about Caesar, though he knew his old friend well enough to be sure that it would never be used against him. Who was he that he should class himself among the big ones of the world? A man may indeed measure small things by great, but the measurer should be careful to declare his own littleness when he illustrates his position by that of the topping ones of the earth. But the thing said had been true. Had the Pompey be who he might, he, the little Caesar of the day, could never now command another legion. He had once told Phineas Finn that he regretted that he had abstained from the ordinary amusements of English gentlemen, but he had abstained also from their ordinary occupations, except so far as politics is one of them. He cared nothing for oxen or for furrows. In regard to his own land he hardly knew whether the farms were large or small. He had been a scholar, and after a certain fitful fashion he had maintained his scholarship, but the literature to which he had been really attached had been that of blue books and newspapers. What was he to do with himself when called upon to resign? And he understood, or thought that he understood, his position too well to expect that after a while, with the usual interval, he might return to power. He had been Prime Minister, not as the leading politician on either side, not as the king of a party, but, so he told himself, as a stop-gap, there could be nothing for him now till the incipidity of life should gradually fade away into the grave. After a while he got up and went off to his wife's apartment, the room in which she used to prepare her triumphs, and where now she contemplated her disappointments. "'I've had the duke with me,' he said. "'What, at last?' I do not know that he could have done any good by coming sooner. And what does his grace say? He thinks that our days are numbered. Psh! Is that all? I could have told him that ever so long ago. It was hardly necessary that he should disturb himself at last to come and tell us such well-ventilated news. There isn't a porter at one of the clubs who doesn't know it. Then there will be the less surprise. And to those who are concerned, perhaps the less mortification. "'Did he tell you who was to succeed you?' asked the duchess. "'Not precisely. He ought to have done that, as I'm sure he knows. Everybody knows except you, Plantagenet. If you know, you could tell me. Of course I can. It will be Mr. Monk.' With all my heart, Glencora, Mr. Monk is a very good man. I wonder whether he'll do anything for us. Think how destitute we shall be. What if I were to ask him for a place? Would he not give it us? "'Will it make you unhappy, Cora?' "'What? You're going?' "'Yes. The change altogether.' She looked him in the face for a moment before she answered, with a peculiar smile in her eyes to which he was well used, a smile half ludicrous and half pathetic, having in it also a dash of sarcasm. "'I can dare to tell the truth,' she said, which you can't. I can be honest and straightforward. Yes, it will make me unhappy. And you? Do you think that I cannot be honest, too, at any rate to you? It does fret me. I do not like to think that I shall be without work. Yes, Othello's occupation will be gone for a while, for a while. Then she came up to him and put both her hands on his breast. But yet, Othello, I shall not be all unhappy. Where will be your contentment? In you. It was making you ill. Ruff people whom the tenderness of your nature could not well endure, trod upon you and worried you with their teeth and wounded you everywhere. I could have turned at them again with my teeth and given them worry for worry, but you could not. Now you will be saved from them, and so I shall not be discontented.  Then I will be contented, too, he said, as he kissed her. End of chapter seventy-two