CHAPTER 32 What business is it of yours? Things had not gone altogether smoothly with the Duchess herself, since the breaking up of the party at Gatherham Castle, nor perhaps quite smoothly with the Duke. It was now March, the house was again setting, and they were both in London, but till they came to town they had remained at the castle, and that huge mansion had not been found to be more comfortable by either of them, as it became empty. For a time the Duchess had been cowed by her husband's stern decision, but as he again became gentle to her, almost seeming by his manner to apologize for his unwanted roughness, she plucked up her spirit and declared to herself that she would not give up the battle. All that she did was it not for his sake, and why should she not have her ambition in life as well as he is? And had she not succeeded in all that she had done, could it be right that she should be asked to abandon everything, to own herself to have been defeated, to be shown to have failed before all the world, because such a one as Major Pountany had made a fool of himself? She attributed all to Major Pountany very wrongly. When a man's mind is veering toward some decision, some conclusion which he has perhaps been slow in reaching, it is probably a little thing which at last fixes his mind and clenches his thoughts. The Duke had been gradually teaching himself to hate the crowd around him, and to reprimand his wife's strategy, before he had known that there was a Major Pountany under his roof. Others had offended him, and first and foremost among them his own colleague, Sir Orlando. The Duchess hardly read his character of right, and certainly did not understand his present motives, when she thought that all might be forgotten as soon as the disagreeable saver of the Major should have passed away. But in nothing, as she thought, had her husband been so silly as in his abandonment of Silverbridge. When she heard that the day was fixed for declaring the vacancy, she ventured to ask him a question. His manner to her lately had been more than urbane, more than affectionate. It had almost been that of a lover. He had petted her and caressed her when they met, and once even said that nothing should really trouble him as long as he had her with him. Such a speech as that never in his life had he made before to her. So she plucked up her courage and asked a question, not exactly on that occasion, but soon afterwards. May not I say a word to Spurgeon about the election? Not a word. And he looked at her as he had looked on that day when he had told her of the Major's sins. She tossed her head and pouted her lips and walked on without speaking. If it was to be so, then indeed would she have failed. And therefore, though in his general manner he was loving to her, things were not going smooth with her. And things were not going smooth with him, because there had reached him a most troubleous dispatch from Sir Orlando Drought only two days before the Cabinet meeting, at which the points to be made in the Queen's speech were to be decided. It had been already agreed that a proposition should be made to Parliament by the Government for an extension of the county's suffrage with some slight redistribution of seats. The towns with less than 20,000 inhabitants were to take in some increased portions of the country parishes around. But there was not enough of a policy in this to satisfy Sir Orlando, nor was the conduct of the bill through the House to be placed in his hands. That was to be entrusted to Mr. Monk. And Mr. Monk would be, if not nominally the leader, yet the chief man of the Government and the House of Commons. This was displeasing to Sir Orlando, and he had therefore demanded from the Prime Minister more of a policy. Sir Orlando's present idea of a policy was the building of four bigger ships of war than had ever been built before, with larger guns and more men and thicker iron plates, and above all with a greater expenditure of money. He had even gone so far as to say, though not in his semi-official letter to the Prime Minister, that he thought that the salvation of the Empire should be the cry of the Coalition Party. After all, he said, what the people care about is the salvation of the Empire. Sir Orlando was at the head of the Admiralty, and if Glory was to be achieved by four ships, it would rest first on the head of Sir Orlando. Now the Duke thought the Empire was safe, and had been throughout his political life averse to increasing the army and navy estimates. He regarded the four ships as altogether unnecessary, and when reminded that he might in this way consolidate the Coalition, said that he would rather do without the Coalition and the four ships than have to do with both of them together. An opinion which was thought by some to be almost traitorous to the party is now organized. The secrets of Cabinet are not to be disclosed lightly, but it came to be understood, as what is done at Cabinet meetings generally does come to be understood, that there was something like a disagreement. The Prime Minister, the Duke of St. Bungie, and Mr. Monk were altogether against the four ships. Sir Orlando was supported by Lord Drummond and another of his old friends. At the advice of the Elder Duke a paragraph was hatched, in which it was declared that Her Majesty, having regard to the safety of the nation and the possible though happily not probable chances of war, thought that the present strength of the navy should be considered. It will give him scope for a new gunboat on an altered principle, said the Duke of St. Bungie, but the Prime Minister, could he have had his own way, would have given Sir Orlando no scope whatever. He would have let the coalition have gone to the dogs and have fallen himself into infinite political ruin, but that he did not dare that men should hereafter say of him that this attempted government had failed because he was stubborn, imperious, and self-confident. He had known when he took his present place that he must yield to others, but he had not known how terrible it is to yield when a principle is in question. How great is the suffering when a man finds himself compelled to do that which he thinks should not be done. Therefore, though he had been strangely loving to his wife, the time had not gone smoothly with him. In direct disobedience to her husband the Duchess did speak a word to Mr. Spurgeon. When at the castle she was frequently driven through Silverbridge and on one occasion had her carriage stopped at the iron monger's door. Out came Mr. Spurgeon, and there were at first half a dozen standing by who could hear what she said. Millepoix the cook wanted to have some new kind of iron plate erected in the kitchen. Of course she had provided herself beforehand with her excuse. As a rule, when the cook wanted anything done he did not send word to the tradesmen by the Duchess. But on this occasion the Duchess was personally most anxious. She wanted to see how the iron plate would work. It was to be a particular kind of iron plate. Than having watched her opportunity she said her word. I suppose we shall be safe with Mr. Lopez. When Mr. Spurgeon was about to reply she shook her head and went on about the iron plate. This would be quite enough to let Mr. Spurgeon understand that she was still anxious about the borough. Mr. Spurgeon was an intelligent man and possessed of discretion to a certain extent. As soon as he saw the little frown and the shake of the head he understood it all. He and the Duchess had a secret together. Would not everything about the castle in which a morsel of iron was employed want renewing? And would not the Duchess take care that it should all be renewed by Spurgeon? But then he must be active, and his activity would be of no avail unless others helped him. So he whispered a word to Sprout, and it soon became known that the castle interest was all alive. But unfortunately the Duke was also on the alert. The Duke had been very much an earnest when he made up his mind that the old custom should be abandoned at Silverbridge, and had endeavored to impress that determination of his upon his wife. The Duke knew more about his property and was better acquainted with its details than his wife or others believed. He heard that in spite of all his orders the castle interest was being maintained, and a word was said to him which seemed to imply that this was his wife's doings. It was then about the middle of February, and arrangements were in process for the removal of the family to London. The Duke had already been up to London for the meeting of Parliament, and had now come back to gather him, purporting to return to London with his wife. Then it was that it was hinted to him that her grace was still anxious as to the election, and had manifested her anxiety. The rumour hurt him, though he did not at the least believe it. It showed to him as he thought not that his wife had been false to him, as in truth she had been, but that even her name could not be kept free from slander. And when he spoke to her on the subject he did so rather with the view of proving to her how necessary it was that she should keep herself altogether aloof from such matters than with any wish to make further inquiry. But he elicited the whole truth.   Those people at Silverbridge still say that I want to return a member for them. Oh, that's the evil. You know I think that instead of killing an evil you have murdered an excellent institution. This at any rate was very imprudent on the part of the Duchess. After that disobedient word spoken to Mr. Spurgeon she should have been more on her guard. As to that, Glencora, I must judge for myself. Oh, yes, you have been jury and judge and executioner. I have done as I thought right to do. I am sorry that I should fail to carry you with me in such a matter. But even failing in that I must do my duty. You will at any rate agree with me that when I say the things should be done it should be done. If you wanted to destroy the house and cut down all the trees and turn the place into a wilderness I suppose you would only have to speak. Of course I know it would be wrong that I should have an opinion. As man you are, of course, to have your own way. She was in one of her most aggravating moods. Though he might compel her to obey he could not compel her to hold her tongue. Glencora I don't think you know how much you add to my troubles or you would not speak to me like that. What am I to say? It seems to me that any more suicidal thing than throwing away the borer never was done. Who will thank you? What additional support will you get? How will it increase your power? It's like King Lear throwing off his clothes in the storm because his daughters turned him out. And you didn't do it because you thought it right. Yes I did, he said, scowling.  You kicked him out. Why wouldn't that satisfy you without sacrificing the borer? It isn't what I think or say about it but that everybody is thinking and saying the same thing. I choose that it shall be so. Very well. And I don't choose that your name shall be mixed up in it. They say in Silverbridge that you are canvassing for Mr. Lopez. Who says so? I presume it's not true. Who says so, Plantagenet? It matters not who has said so if it be untrue. I presume it to be false. Of course it is false. Then the Duchess remembered her word to Mr. Spurgeon and the cowardice of the lie was heavy on her. I doubt whether she would have been so shocked by the idea of a falsehood as to have been kept back from it had she before resolved that it would save her. But she was not in her practice a false woman, her courage being too high for falsehood. It now seemed to her that by this lie she was owning herself to be quelled and brought into absolute subjection by her husband. So she burst out into truth. Now I think of it. I did say a word to Mr. Spurgeon. I told him that that I hope Mr. Lopez would be returned. I don't know whether you call that canvassing. I desired you not to speak to Mr. Spurgeon, he thundered forth. That's all very well, Plantagenet, but if you desire me to hold my tongue altogether what am I to do? What business is this of yours? I suppose I may have my political sympathies as well as another. Really you are becoming so autocratic that I shall have to go in for women's rights. You mean me to understand that you intend to put yourself in opposition to me?  Nothing that one can do is right. You make me wish that I was a milkmaid or a farmer's wife. So saying she bounced out of the room, leaving the duke sick at heart, low in spirit, and doubtful whether he were right or wrong in his attempts to manage his wife. Surely he must be right in feeling that in his high office a clearer conduct and cleaner way of walking was expected from him than from other men. No bless oblige. To his uncle the privilege of returning a member to parliament had been a thing of course, and when the radical newspapers of the day abused his uncle, his uncle took that abuse as a thing of course. The old duke acted after his kind and did not care what others said of him, and he himself, when he first came to his dukedom, was not as he was now. Duties, though they were heavy enough, were lighter then. Serious matters were less serious. There was this and that matter of public policy on which he was intent, but thinking humbly of himself he had not yet learned to conceive that he must fit his public conduct in all things to a straight rule of patriotic justice. Now it was different with him, and though the change was painful he felt it to be imperative. He would feign have been as other men, but he could not. But in this change it was so needful to him that he should carry with him the full sympathies of one person, that she who was the nearest to him of all should act with him, and now she had not only disobeyed him, but had told him as some grossest wife might tell her husband that he was making a fuss about it all. And then, as he thought of the scene which has been described, he could not quite approve of himself. He knew that he was too self conscious, that he was thinking too much about his own conduct and the conduct of others to him. The phrase had been odious to him, but still he could not acquit himself of making a fuss. Of one thing only was he sure that a grievous calamity had befallen him when circumstances compelled him to become the Queen's Prime Minister. He said nothing further to his wife till they were in London together, and then he was tempted to caress her again, to be loving to her, and to show her that he had forgiven her. But she was brusque to him as though she did not wish to be forgiven. Quora, he said, do not separate yourself from me. Separate myself? But on earth do you mean? I have not dreamed of such a thing. The Duchess answered him as though he had alluded to some actual separation. I do not mean that. God forbid that a misfortune such as that should ever happen. Do not disjoin yourself from me in all these troubles. What am I to do when you scold me? You must know pretty well by this time that I don't like to be scolded. I desired you not to speak to Mr. Spurgeon. As she repeated his words, she imitate his manner and voice closely. I shouldn't dream of addressing the children with such magnificence of anger. What business is it of yours? No woman likes that sort of thing, and I'm not sure that I am acquainted with any woman who likes it much less than Glen Quora, Duchess of Omnium. As she said these last words in a low whisper, she curtsy down to the ground. You know how anxious I am, he began, that you should share everything with me, even in politics. But in all things there must at last be one voice, and that shall be the ruling voice. And that is to be yours, of course. In such a matter as this it must be.  It's human nature, and you've got to put up with it. I wish you had a better wife. I dare say there are many who would be better. There's the Duchess of St. Bungie who never troubles her husband about politics, but only scolds him because the wind blows from the east. It is just possible that the might be worse. Oh, Glen Quora! You had better make the best you can of your bargain and not expect too much from her. And don't ride over her with a very high horse and let her have her own way a little if you really believe that she has your interest at heart. After this he was quite aware that she had got the better of him altogether. On that occasion he smiled and kissed her and went his way. But he was by no means satisfied, that he should be thwarted by her, ate into his very heart, and it was a wretched thing to him that he could not make her understand his feeling in this respect. If it were to go on he must throw up everything, ruat coelum fiat, propice of ordination from his wife in regard to public matters. No wife had a fuller allowance of privilege or more complete power in her hands as to things fit for women's management. But it was intolerable to him that she should seek to interfere with him in matters of a public nature. And she was constantly doing so. She had always this or that aspirant for office on hand, this or that job to be carried, though the jobs were not perhaps much in themselves. This or that affair to be managed by her own political allies, such as Barrington Earl and Finneas Finn. And in his heart he suspected her of a design of managing the government in her own way with her own particular friend, Mrs. Finn, for her prime minister. If he could in no other way put an end to such evils as these, he must put an end to his own political life. Ruat coelum fiat ustitia. Now ustitia to him was not compatible with feminine interference in his own special work. It may therefore be understood that things were not going very smoothly with the Duke and Duchess. And it may also be understood why the Duchess had very little to say to Mr. Lopez about the election. She was aware that she owed something to Mr. Lopez, whom she had certainly encouraged to stand for the borough. And she had therefore sent her card to his wife, and was to prepare to invite them both to her parties. But just at present she was a little tired of Ferdinand Lopez, and perhaps unjustly disposed to couple him with that unfortunate wretch, Major Pountney. END OF CHAPTER XXXII CHAPTER XXXIII SHOWING THAT A MAN SHOULD NOT HOWL Arthur Fletcher, in his letter to Mrs. Lopez, had told her that when he found out who was to be his antagonist at Silverbridge, it was too late for him to give up the contest. He was, he said, bound in faith to continue it by what had passed between himself and others. But in truth he had not reached his conclusion without some persuasion from others. He had been at long-barns with his brother when he first heard that Lopez intended to stand, and he had once signified his desire to give way. The information reached him from Mr. Frank Gresham, of Greshamsbury, a gentleman connected with the Decorses, who is now supposed to represent the Decorsi interest in the county, and who had first suggested to Arthur that he should come forward. It was held at long-barns that Arthur was bound in honor to Mr. Gresham, and to Mr. Gresham's friends, and to this opinion he had yielded. Since Emily Wharton's marriage, her name had never been mentioned at long-barns in Arthur's presence. When he was away, and of course his life was chiefly passed in London, old Mrs. Fletcher was free enough in her abuse of the silly creature who would allow herself to be taken out of her rank by a Portuguese Jew. But she had been made to understand by her elder son, the lord of long-barns, that not a word was to be said when Arthur was there. I think he ought to be taught to forget her, Mrs. Fletcher had said. But John, in his own quiet but imperious way, had declared that there were some men to whom such lessons could not be taught, and that Arthur was one of them. Is he never to get a wife then, Mrs. Fletcher had asked. John wouldn't pretend to answer that question, but was quite sure that his brother would not be tempted into other matrimonial arrangements by anything that could be said against Emily Lopez. When Mrs. Fletcher declared in her extreme anger that Arthur was a fool for his trouble, John did not contradict her, but declared that the folly was of a nature to require tender treatment. Matters were in this condition at long-barns when Arthur communicated to his brother the contents of Mr. Gresham's letter, and expressed his own purpose of giving up Silverbridge. I don't quite see that, said John. No, and it is impossible that you should be expected to see it. I don't quite know how to talk about it even to you, though I think you are about the softest hearted fellow out. I don't acknowledge the soft heart, but go on. I don't want to interfere with that man. I have a sort of feeling that as he has got her he might as well have the seat too. The seat, as you call it, is not there for his gratification or for yours. The seat is there in order that the people of Silverbridge may be represented in Parliament. Let them get somebody else. I don't want to put myself in opposition to him, and I certainly do not want to oppose her. They can't change their candidate in that way at a day's notice. You would be throwing Gresham over, and if you ask me, I think that is the thing you have no right to do. This objection of yours is sentimental, and there is nothing of which a man should be so much in dread as sentimentalism. It is not your fault that you oppose, Mr. Lopez. You were in the field first, and you must go on with it. John Fletcher, when he spoke in this way, was, at Longbarn's, always supposed to be right, and on the present occasion he, as usual, prevailed. Then Arthur Fletcher wrote his letter to the lady. He would not have liked to have it known that the composition and copying of that little note had cost him an hour. He had wished that she should understand his feelings, and yet it was necessary that he should address her in words that should be perfectly free from affection or emotion. He must let her know that, though he wrote to her, the letter was for her husband as well as for herself, and he must do this in a manner which would not imply any fear that his writing to her would be taken amiss. The letter, when completed, was at any rate simple and true, and yet, as we know, it was taken very much amiss. Arthur Fletcher had by no means recovered from the blow he had received that day when Emily had told him everything down by the riverside, but then it must be said of him that he had no intention of recovery. He was as a man who, having taken a burden on his back, declares to himself that he will, for certain reasons, carry it throughout his life. The man knows, with the burden, he cannot walk as men walk who are unencumbered, but for those reasons of his he has chosen to laid himself, and having done so he abandons regret and submits to his circumstances. So had it been with him, he would make no attempt to throw off the load.  From that day she had been the pivot on which his whole existence had moved. She had refused his office more than once, but had done so with so much tender kindness, that though he had found himself to be wounded and bruised, he had never abandoned his object. Her father and all his own friends encouraged him. He was continually told that her coldness was due to the simple fact that she had not yet learned to give her heart away, and so he had persevered, being ever thoroughly intent on his purpose, till he was told by herself that her love was given to this other man. Then he knew that it behooved him to set some altered course of life before him. He could not shoot his rival or knock him over the head, nor could he carry off his girl, as used to be done in rougher times. There was nothing now for a man in such a catastrophe as this, but submission. But he might submit and shake off his burden, or submit and carry it hopelessly. He told himself that he would do the latter. She had been his goddess, and he would not now worship at another shrine. And then ideas came into his head, not hopes or purposes, or a belief even in any possibility, but vague ideas, mere castles in the air, that a time might come in which it might be in his power to serve her, and prove to her beyond doubting what had been the nature of his love. Like other of his family, he thought ill of Lopez, believing the man to be an adventurer, one who would probably too fall into misfortune, however high he might now seem to hold his head. He was certainly a man not standing on the solid basis of land, or of three percents, those solidities to which, such as the Whartons and Fletchers, are want to trust. No doubt, should there be such a fall, the man's wife would have other help than that of her rejected lover. She had a father, brother, and cousins, who would also be there to aid her. The idea was therefore but a castle in the air, and yet it was dear to him. At any rate he resolved that he would live for it, and that the woman should still be his goddess, though she was the wife of another man, and might now perhaps never even be seen by him. Then there came upon him, immediately almost after her marriage, the necessity of writing to her. The task was one which, of course, he did not perform lightly. He never said a word of this to anybody else, but his brother understood it all, and in a somewhat silent fashion fully sympathized with him. John could not talk to him about love, or mark passages of poetry for him to read, or deal with him at all romantically, but he could take care that his brother had the best horses to ride, and the warmest corner out shooting, and that everything in the house should be done for his brother's comfort. As the squire looked and spoke at Long Barns, others looked and spoke, so that everybody knew that Mr. Arthur was to be contradicted in nothing. Had he just at this period ordered a tree in the park to be cut down, it would, I think, have been cut down, without reference to the master. But perhaps John's power was most felt in the way in which he repressed the expressions of his mother's high indignation. Mean slut, she once said, speaking of Emily in her eldest son's hearing, for the girl to her thinking had been mean and had been a slut. She had not known, so Mrs. Fletcher thought, what birth and blood required of her. Mother, John Fletcher had said, you would break Arthur's heart if he heard you speak in that way, and I am sure you would drive him from Long Barns, keep it to yourself. The old woman had shaken her head angrily, but she had endeavored to do as she had been bid. Isn't your brother riding that horse a little rashly? Reginald Cottgrave said to John Fletcher in the hunting field one day. I didn't observe, said John, but whatever horse he's on he always rides rashly. Arthur was mounted on a long, raking, thoroughbred black animal, which he had bought himself about a month ago, and which, having been run at steeple chases, rushed at every fence as though he were going to swallow it. His brother had begged him to put some rough rider up till the horse could be got to go quietly, but Arthur had persevered, and during the whole of this day the squire had been in a tremor, lest there should be some accident. He used to have a little more judgment, I think, said Cottgrave. He went at that double now just as hard as the brute could tear. If the horse hadn't done it all, where would he have been? In the further ditch, I suppose, but you see the horse did do it all. This was all very well as an answer to Reginald Cottgrave, to whom it was not necessary that Fletcher should explain the circumstances. But the squire had known as well as Cottgrave that his brother had been riding rashly, and he had understood the reason why. I don't think a man ought to break his neck, he said, because he can't get everything that he wishes. The two brothers The two brothers were standing then together before the fire in the squire's own room, having just come in from hunting. Who was going to break his neck?  I daresay, though for the matter of that the chances are very much against it, but a man shouldn't ride so as to have those things said of him. What is the fellow to do if he can't hold a horse? Get off him. That's nonsense, John. No, it's not. You know what I mean very well. If I were to lose half my property to-morrow, don't you think it would cut me up a good deal? It would, me, I know. But what would you think of me if I howled about it? Do I howl? asked Arthur angrily. Every man howls who is driven out of his ordinary course by any trouble, a man howls if he goes about frowning always. Do I frown? Or laughing? Do I laugh? Or galloping over the country like a mad devil who wants to get rid of his debts by breaking his neck? Equam memento. You remember all that, don't you? I remember it, but it isn't so easy to do it. Try. There are other things to be done in life except getting married. You are going into parliament. I don't know that. Gresham tells me there isn't a doubt about it. Think of that. Fix your mind upon it. Don't take it only as an accident, but as the thing you're to live for. If you'll do that, if you'll so manage that there shall be something to be done in parliament which only you can do, you won't ride a runaway horse as you did that brute to-day. Arthur looked up into his brother's face, almost weeping. We expect much of you, you know. I'm not a man to do anything except be a good steward for the family property and keep the old house from falling down. You're a clever fellow, so that between us, if we both do our duty, the Fletchers may still thrive in the land. My house shall be your house, and my wife your wife, and my children your children, and then the honour you win shall be my honour.  Arthur Fletcher squeezed his brother's hand and went away to dress. END OF CHAPTER XXXIV THE SILVER BRIDGE ELECTION About a month after this affair with the runaway horse, Arthur Fletcher went to Greshamsbury, preparatory to his final soldier and at Silverbridge, for the week previous to his election. Greshamsbury, the seat of Francis Gresham, a squire, who was a great man in these parts, was about twenty miles from Silverbridge, and the tedious work of canvassing the electors could not therefore be done from thence, but he spent a couple of pleasant days with his old friend and learned what was being said and what was being done in and about the borough. Mr.  His father had been an embarrassed man with a large estate, but this Gresham had married a lady with immense wealth and had prospered in the world. He was not an active politician. He did not himself care for Parliament, or for the good things which political power can give, and was on this account averse to the coalition. He thought that Sir Orlando drought and the others were touching pitch and had defiled themselves, but he was conscious that in so thinking he was one of but a small minority and bad as the world around him certainly was, terrible as had been the fall of the glory of old England. He was nevertheless content to live without loud grumbling as long as the farmers paid him their rent, and the labourers in his part of the country did not strike for wages, and the land when sold would fetch thirty years' purchase. He had not therefore been careful to ascertain that Arthur Fletcher would pledge himself to oppose the coalition before he profited his assistance in this matter of the borough. It would not be easy to find such a candidate or perhaps possible to bring him in when found. The Fletches had always been good conservatives and were proper people to be in Parliament. A conservative in Parliament is, of course, obliged to promote a great many things which he does not really approve. Mr. Gresham quite understood that. You can't have tests and qualifications, rotten boroughs and the divine right of kings back again. But as the glorious institutions of the country are made to perish one after the other, it is better that they should receive the kudugras tenderly from loving hands than be roughly throttled by radicals. Mr. Gresham would thank his stars that he could still preserve foxes down in his own country instead of doing any of this dirty work, for let the best be made of such work still it was dirty, and was willing, now as always, to give his assistance and if necessary to spend a little money to put a Fletcher into Parliament and to keep a Lopez out. There was to be a third candidate. That was the first news that Fletcher heard. It will do us all the good in the world, said Mr. Gresham. The rads in the borough are not satisfied with Mr. Lopez. They say they don't know him. As long as a certain set could make it be believed that he was the Duke's nominee they were content to accept him, even though he was not proposed directly by the Duke's people in the usual way. But the Duke has made himself understood at last. You've seen the Duke's letter? Arthur had not seen the Duke's letter, which had only been published in the Silver Bridge Gazette of that week, and now he read it sitting in Mr. Gresham's magistrate's room as a certain chamber in the house had been called since the days of the present squire's great grandfather. The Duke's letter was addressed to his recognized man of business in those parts and was as follows. Carlton Terrace March 1870 My dear Mr. Morton, Mr. Morton was the successor of one Mr. Fathergill, who had reigned supreme in those parts under the old Duke. I am afraid that my wishes with regard to the borough and the forthcoming election there of a member of parliament are not yet clearly understood, although I endeavored to declare them when I was at Gatherham Castle. I trust that no elector will vote for this or that gentleman with an idea that the return of any special candidate will please me. The ballot will of course prevent me or any other man from knowing how an elector may vote, but I beg to assure the electors generally that should they think fit to return a member pledged to oppose the government of which I form a part, it would not in any way change my cordial feelings towards the town. I may perhaps be allowed to add that in my opinion no elector can do his duty except by voting for the candidate whom he thinks best qualified to serve the country. In regard to the gentlemen who are now before the constituency, I have no feeling for one rather than for the other, and had I any such feeling I should not wish it to actuate the vote of a single elector. I should be glad if this letter could be published, so as to be brought under the eyes of the electors generally. Yours faithfully, Omnium. When the Duke said that he feared that his wishes were not understood, and spoke of the inefficacy of his former declaration, he was alluding, of course, to the Duchess and to Mr. Spurgeon. Mr. Spurgeon guessed that it might be so, and still wishing to have the Duchess for his good friend, was at once assiduous in explaining to his friends in the borough that even this letter did not mean anything. A prime minister was bound to say that kind of thing. But the borough, if it wished to please the Duke, must return Lopez in spite of the Duke's letter. Such was Mr. Spurgeon's doctrine, but he did not carry Mr. Sprout with him. Mr. Sprout had once saw his opportunity, and suggested to Mr. Dubong, the local brewer, that he should come forward. Dubong was the man rapidly growing into provincial eminence, and jumped at the offer. Consequently, there were three candidates. Dubong came forward as a conservative prepared to give a cautious, but very cautious, support to the coalition. Mr. Dubong, in his printed address, said very sweet things of the Duke generally. The borough was blessed by the vicinity of the Duke. But looking at the present, perhaps unprecedented crisis in affairs, Mr. Dubong was prepared to give no more than a very cautious support to the Duke's government. Arthur Fletcher read Mr. Dubong's address immediately after the Duke's letter. The more, the merrier, said Arthur. Just so, Dubong will not rob you of a vote, but he will cut the ground all together from under the other man's feet. You can see that as far as actual political program goes, there isn't much to choose between any of you. You are all government men. With a difference. One man in these days is so like another, continued Gresham sarcastically, that it requires good eyes to see the shades of the colours. Then you'd better support Dubong, said Arthur. I think you've just a turn in your favour. Besides, I couldn't really carry a vote myself. As for Dubong, I'd sooner have him than a foreign cad like Lopez. Then Arthur Fletcher frowned, and Mr. Gresham became confused, remembering the catastrophe about the young lady whose story he had heard. Dubong used to be plain English as Bong, before he got rich and made his name beautiful, continued Gresham. But I suppose Mr. Lopez does come of foreign extraction. I don't know what he comes from, said Arthur moodily. They tell me he's a gentleman, however, as we are to have a contest I hope he may not win. Of course you do, and he shan't win, nor shall the great Dubong.  Would you like Papa to be Lord Greshamsbury, he said to a little girl, who then rushed into the room? No, I wouldn't. I'd like Papa to give me the pony which the man wants to sell out in the yard. She's quite right, Fletcher, said the squire. I'm much more likely to be able to buy them ponies as simple Frank Gresham than I should be if I had a Lord's coronet to pay for. This was on a Saturday, and on the following Monday Mr. Gresham drove the candidate over to Silverbridge and started him on his work of canvassing. Mr. Dubong had been busy ever since Mr. Sprout's brilliant suggestion had been made, and Lopez had been in the field even before him. Each one of the candidates called at the house of every elector in the borough, and every man in the borough was an elector. When they had been at work for four or five days, each candidate assured the borough that he had already received promises of votes sufficient to ensure his success, and each candidate was as anxious as ever, nay, was more rabidly anxious than ever to secure the promise of a single vote. Hence were made by honest citizens of the pleasure they would have in supporting this or that gentleman, for the honest citizens assured one gentleman after the other of the satisfaction they had in seeing so all sufficient a candidate in the borough, if the smallest pecuniary help were given them even a day's pay so that their poor children might not be injured by their going to the pole. But the candidates and their agents were stern in their replies to such temptations. That's a dodge of the rascal Sprout, said Spurgeon to Mr. Lopez. That's one of Sprout's men. If he could get half a crown from you, it would be all up with us. But though Spurgeon called Sprout a rascal, he laid the same bait, both for Dubong and for Fletcher, but laid it in vain. Everybody said that it was a very clean election. A brewer standing in devil a glass of beer, said one old elector who had remembered better things when the borough had never heard of a contest. On the third day of his canvas, Arthur Fletcher with his gang of agents and followers behind him met Lopez with his gang in the street. It was probable that they would so meet and Fletcher had resolved what he would do when such a meeting took place. He walked up to Lopez and with a kindly smile offered his hand. The two men, though they had never been intimate, had known each other. And Fletcher was determined to show that he would not quarrel with a man because that man had been his favoured rival. In comparison with that other matter, this affair of the candidature was, of course, trivial. But Lopez, who had, as the reader may remember, made some threat about a horse whip, had come to a resolution of a very different nature. He put his arms akimbo, resting his hands on his hips, and altogether declined the prophet's civility. You had better walk on, he said, and then stood scowling on the spot till the other should pass by. Fletcher looked at him for a moment, then bowed and passed on. At least a dozen men saw what had taken place, and were aware that Mr. Lopez had expressed his determination to quarrel personally with Mr. Fletcher, in opposition to Mr. Fletcher's expressed wish for amity. And before they had gone to bed that night, all the dozens knew the reason why. Of course there was someone then at Silverbridge, clever enough to find out that Arthur Fletcher had been in love with Miss Wharton, but that Miss Wharton had lately been married to Mr. Lopez. No doubt the incident added a pleasurable emotion to the excitement caused by the election at Silverbridge, generally. A personal quarrel is attractive everywhere. The expectation of such an occurrence will bring together the whole House of Commons. And of course this quarrel was very attractive at Silverbridge. There were some Fletcherites and Lopezites in the quarrel, as there were also Dubungites, who maintained that when gentlemen could not canvas without quarreling in the streets, they were manifestly unfit to represent such a borough as Silverbridge in Parliament, and that therefore Mr. Dubung should be returned. Mr. Gresham was in town that day, though not till after the occurrence, and Fletcher could not avoid speaking of it. The man must be a cur, said Gresham. It would make no difference in the world to me, said Arthur, struggling hard to prevent signs of emotion from showing themselves in his face. Were it not that he has married a lady whom I have long known and whom I greatly esteem? He felt that he could hardly avoid all mention of the marriage, and yet was determined that he would say no word that his brother would call howling. There has been no previous quarrel or offence, asked Gresham. None in the least. When Arthur so spoke he forgot altogether the letter he had written, nor had he then remembered it would he have thought it possible that that letter should have given offence. He had been the sufferer, not Lopez. This man had robbed him of his happiness, and though it would have been foolish in him to make a quarrel for a grievance such as that, there might have been some excuse had he done so. It had taken him some time to perceive that greatly as this man had injured him, there had been no injustice done to him, and that therefore there should be no complaint made by him. But that this other man should complain was to him unintelligible. He is not worth your notice, said Mr. Gresham. He is simply not a gentleman, and does not know how to behave himself. I am very sorry for the young lady, that's all. At this allusion to Emily Arthur felt that his face became red with rising blood, and he felt also that his friend should not have spoken thus openly, thus irreverently, on so sacred a subject. But at the moment he said nothing further. As far as his canvas was concerned it had been successful, and he was beginning to feel sure that he would be the new member. He endeavored therefore to drown his sorrow in this coming triumph. But Lopez had been by no means gratified with his canvas, or with the conduct of the borough generally. He had already begun to feel that the Duchess and Mr. Spurgeon and the borough had thrown him over shamefully. Immediately on his arrival in Silverbridge, a local attorney had, with the blandest possible smile, asked him for a check for five hundred pounds. Of course there must be money spent at once, and of course the money must come out of the candidate's pocket. He had known all this beforehand, and yet the demand for the money had come upon him as an injury. He gave the check, but showed clearly by his manner that he resented the application. This did not tend to bind to him more closely the services of those who were present when the demand was made. And then, as he began his canvas, he found that he could not conjure at all with the name of the Duke, or even with that of the Duchess, and was told on the second day by Mr. Spurgeon himself that he had better fight the battle on his own hook. Now, his own hook in Silverbridge was certainly not a strong hook. Mr. Spurgeon was still of opinion that a good deal might be done by judicious manipulation, and went so far as to suggest that another check for five hundred pounds in the hands of Mr. Wise the lawyer would be effective. But Lopez did not give the other check, and Spurgeon whispered to him that the Duke had been too many for the Duchess.  With such a hope still existing, he had not scrupled to affirm in his speeches that the success of his canvas had been complete. But on the morning of the day on which he met Fletcher in the street, Mr. Debunk had called upon him, accompanied by two of the Debunk agents, and by Mr. Spurgeon himself, and had suggested that he, Lopez, should withdraw from the contest, so that Debunk might be returned and that the liberal interests of the borough might not be sacrificed. This was a heavy blow, and one which Ferdinand Lopez was not the man to bear with equanimity. From the moment in which the Duchess had mentioned the borough to him, he had regarded the thing as certain. After a while he had understood that his return must be accompanied by more trouble and greater expense than he had at first anticipated, but still he had thought that it was all but sure. He had altogether misunderstood the nature of the influence exercised by the Duchess, and the nature also of the Duke's resolution. Mr. Spurgeon had of course wished to have a candidate and had allured him. Perhaps he had in some degree been ill-treated by the borough. But he was a man whom the feeling of injustice to himself would drive almost a frenzy, though he never measured the amount of his own injustice to others. When the proposition was made to him, he scowled at them all and declared that he would fight the borough to the last. Then you'll let Mr. Fletcher into a certainty, said Mr. Sprout. Now there was an idea in the borough that although all the candidates were ready to support the Duke's government, Mr. Debunk and Mr. Lopez were the two liberals. Mr. Debunk was sitting in the room when the appeal was made, and declared that he feared that such would be the result. I'll tell you what I'll do, said Lopez. I'll toss up which of his retires. Mr. Sprout, on behalf of Mr. Debunk, protested against that proposition. Mr. Debunk, who was a gentleman of great local influence, was in possession of four-fifths of the liberal interests of the borough. Even were he to retire, Mr. Lopez could not get in. Mr. Sprout declared that this was known to all the borough at large. He, Sprout, was sorry that a gentleman like Mr. Lopez should have been brought down there under false ideas. He had all through told Mr. Spurgeon that the Duke had been an earnest, but Mr. Spurgeon had not comprehended the position. It had been a pity. But anybody who understood the borough could see with one eye that Mr. Lopez had not a chance. If Mr. Lopez would retire, Mr. Debunk would no doubt be returned. If Mr. Lopez went to the pole, Mr. Fletcher would probably be the new member. This was the picture as it was painted by Mr. Sprout, who had even then heard something of the loves of the two candidates, and who had thought that Lopez would be glad to injure Arthur Fletcher's chances of success. So far he was not wrong, but the sense of the injury done to himself oppressed Lopez so much that he could not guide himself by reason. The idea of retiring was very painful to him, and he did not believe these men. He thought it quite possible that they were there to facilitate the return of Arthur Fletcher. He had never even heard of Debunk till he had come to Silver Bridge two or three days ago. He still could not believe that Debunk would be returned. He thought over it all for a moment, and then he gave his answer. I've been brought down here to fight, and I'll fight it to the last, he said. Then you'll hand over the borough to Mr. Fletcher, said Sprout, getting up and ushering Mr. Debunk out of the room. It was after that, but on the same day that Lopez and Fletcher met each other in the street. The affair did not take a minute, and then they parted each on his own way. In the course of that evening Mr. Spurgeon told his candidate that he, Spurgeon, could not concern himself any further in the election. He was very sorry for what had occurred, very sorry indeed. It was no doubt a pity that the Duke had been so firm. But, and Mr. Spurgeon shrugged his shoulders as he spoke, when a nobleman like the Duke chooses to have a way of his own, he must have it. Mr. Spurgeon went on to declare that any further candidature would be a waste of money, waste of time, and waste of energy, and then signified his intention of retiring, as far as this election went, into private life. When asked, he acknowledged that they who had been acting with him had come to the same resolve. Mr. Lopez had in fact come there as the Duke's nominee, and as the Duke had no nominee, Mr. Lopez was in fact nowhere. I don't suppose that any man was ever so treated before, since members were first returned to Parliament, said Lopez. Well, sir, yes, sir, it is a little hard, but you see, sir, her grace meant the best. Her grace did mean the best, no doubt. It may be, sir, that there was a little misunderstanding, a little misunderstanding at the castle, sir. Then Mr. Spurgeon retired, and Lopez understood that he was to see nothing more of the iron monger. Of course, there was nothing for him now but to retire, to shake the dust off his feet and get out of Silverbridge as quickly as he could. But his friends had all deserted him, and he did not know how to retire. He had paid five hundred pounds, and he had a strong opinion that a portion, at least, of the money should be returned to him. He had a keen sense of ill usage, and at the same time a feeling that he ought not to run out of the borough like a whipped dog without showing his face to anyone. But his strongest sensation at this moment was one of hatred against Arthur Fletcher. He was sure Arthur Fletcher would be the new member. He did not put the least trust in Mr. Debunk. He had taught himself really to think that Fletcher had insulted him by writing to his wife, and that a further insult had been offered to him by that meeting in the street. He had told his wife that he would ask Fletcher to give up the borough, and that he would make that request with a horse whip in his hand. It was too late now to say anything of the borough, but it might not be too late for the horse whip. He had a great desire to make good that threat, as far as the horse whip was concerned, having an idea that he would thus lower Fletcher in his wife's eyes. It was not that he was jealous, not jealous according to the ordinary meaning of the word. His wife's love to him had been too recently given and too warmly maintained for such a feeling as that. But there was a rankerous hatred in his heart against the man, and a conviction that his wife at any rate esteemed the man whom he hated. And then would he not make his retreat from the borough with more honour, if, before he left, he could horse whip his successful antagonist? We, who know the feelings of Englishmen generally better than Mr. Lopez did, would say certainly not. We would think that such an incident would by no means redound as a credit of Mr. Lopez, and he himself, probably at cooler moments, would have seen the folly of such an idea. But anger about the borough had driven him mad, and now, in his wretchedness, the suggestion had for him a certain charm. The man had outraged all propriety by writing to his wife. Of course he would be justified in horse-whipping him, but there were difficulties. A man is not horse-whipped simply because you wish to horse-whip him. In the evening, as he was sitting alone, he got a note from Mr. Spurgeon. Mr. Spurgeon's compliments, doesn't Mr. Lopez think an address to the electors, should appear in tomorrow's Gazette, very short and easy, something like the following? Then Mr. Spurgeon added a very short and easy letter to the electors of the borough of Silverbridge, in which Mr. Lopez was supposed to tell them that although his canvas promised him every success, he felt that he owed it to the borough to retire, lest he should injure the borough by splitting the liberal interest with their much-respected fellow townsman, Mr. Debunk. In the course of the evening he did copy that letter and sent it out to the newspaper office. He must retire, and it was better for him that he should retire after some recognized fashion. But he wrote another letter also, and sent it over to the opposition hotel. The other letter was as follows. Sir, before this election began you were guilty of gross impertinence in writing a letter to my wife, to her extreme annoyance, and to my most justifiable anger. Any gentleman would think that the treatment you had already received at her hands would have served a saver from such insult, but there are men who will never take a lesson without a beating. And now, since you have been here, you have presumed to offer to shake hands with me in the street, though you ought to have known that I should not choose to meet you on friendly terms after what has taken place. I now write to tell you that I shall carry a horse whip while I am here, and that if I meet you in the streets again before I leave the town, I shall use it. Ferdinand Lopez, Mr. Arthur Fletcher. This letter he sent at once to his enemy, and then set late into the night, thinking of his threat, and of the manner in which he would follow it up. If he could only get one fair blow at Fletcher his purpose, he thought, would be achieved. In any matter of horse whipping the truth hardly ever gets itself correctly known. The man who is given the first blow is generally supposed to have thrashed the other. What might follow, though it might be inconvenient, must be borne. The man had insulted him by writing to his wife, and the sympathies of the world he thought would be with him. To give him his due it must be owned that he had no personal fear as to the encounter. That night Arthur Fletcher had gone over to Gresham's free, and on the following morning he returned with Mr. Gresham. For heaven's sake, look at that! He said, handing the letter to his friend. Did you ever write to his wife? Asked Gresham when he read it. Yes, I did. All this is dreadful to me, dreadful. Well, you know how it used to be with me. I need not go into all that, need I? Don't say a word more than you think necessary. When you asked me to stand for the place, I had not heard that he thought of being a candidate. I wrote and told her so, and told her also, that had I known it before, I would not have come here. I don't quite see that, said Gresham. Perhaps not. Perhaps I was a fool, but we needn't go into that. At any rate, there was no insult to him. I wrote in the simplest language. Looking at it all round, I think you had better not have written. You wouldn't say so if you saw the letter. I'm sure you wouldn't. I had known her all my life. My brother is married to her cousin. O heavens, we had been all but engaged. I would have done anything for her. Was it not natural that I should tell her? As far as the language was concerned, the letter was one to be read at Charing Cross. He says that she was annoyed and insulted. Impossible. It was a letter that any man might have written to any woman. Well, you have got to take care of yourself at any rate. What will you do? What ought I to do? Go to the police. Mr. Gresham had himself, once when young, thrashed a man who had offended him, and had then thought himself much aggrieved, because the police had been called in. But that had been twenty years ago, and Mr. Gresham's opinions had been matured, and perhaps corrected by age. No, I won't do that, said Arthur Fletcher. That's what you ought to do. I couldn't do that. Then take no notice of the letter, and carry a fairly big stick. It should be big enough to hurt him a good deal, but not to do him any serious damage. At that moment an agent came in with news of the man's retirement from the contest. As he left the town, asked Gresham, no, he had not left the town, nor had he been seen by any one that morning.  And so the stick was selected. As the two walked down the street together, almost the first thing they saw was Lopez, standing at his hotel door with a cutting whip in his hand. He was at that moment quite alone, but on the opposite side of the street there was a policeman, one of the borough constables, very slowly making his way along the pavement. His movement, indeed, was so slow that anyone watching him would have come to the conclusion that that particular part of the high street had some attraction for him at that special moment. Alas, alas, how age will alter the spirit of a man? Twenty years since, Frank Gresham would have thought anyone to be a mean miscreant who would have interposed a policeman between him and his foe. But it is to be feared that while selecting that stick he had said a word which was causing the constable to loiter on the pavement. But Gresham turned no eye to the policeman as he walked on with his friend, and Fletcher did not see the man.  Then Lopez advanced to them with his whip raised, but as he did so the policeman came across the street quickly but very quietly and stood right before him. The man was so thoroughly in the way of the aggrieved wretch that it was out of the question that he should touch Fletcher with his whip. Do you usually walk about attended by a policeman? said Lopez with all the score in which he knew how to throw into his voice. I didn't know the man was here, said Fletcher. You may tell that to the Marines.  Then he turned round and addressed the street, but still under the shadow as it were, of the policeman's helmet. This man, who presumes to offer himself as a candidate to represent Silverbridge in Parliament, has insulted my wife, and now because he fears that I shall horse whip him, he goes about the street under the care of a policeman. This is intolerable, said Fletcher, turning to his friend. Mr. Lopez, said Gresham, I am sorry to say that I must give you in charge, unless you will undertake to leave the town without interfering further with Mr. Fletcher, either by word or deed. I will undertake nothing, said Lopez.  About two o'clock in the afternoon of that day Mr. Lopez appeared before the Silverbridge bench of magistrates, and was there sworn to keep the peace to Mr. Fletcher for the next six months. After that he was allowed to leave the town, and was back in London with his wife and bell grave mansions to dinner that evening. On the day but one after this the ballot was taken, and at eight o'clock in the evening of that day Arthur Fletcher was declared to be duly elected, but Mr. de Bung ran him very hard. The numbers were Fletcher 315, de Bung 308. Mr. de Bung's friends during these two last days had not hesitated to make what use they could on behalf of their own candidate of the Lopez and Fletcher quarrel. If Mr. Fletcher had insulted the other man's wife, surely he could not be a proper member for Silverbridge. And then the row was declared to have been altogether discreditable. Two strangers had come into this peaceful town and had absolutely quarreled with sticks and whips in the street, calling each other appropriate names. Would it not be better that they should elect their own respectable townsmen? All this was nearly effective. But in spite of all Arthur Fletcher was at last returned. End of Chapter 34 Chapter 35 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 Nicholas Clifford. The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 35 Lopez Back in London Lopez, as he returned to town, recovered something of his senses, though he still fancied that Arthur Fletcher had done him a positive injury by writing to his wife. But something of that madness left him, which had come from his deep sense of injury, both as to the letter and as to the borough, and he began to feel that he had been wrong about the horse whip. He was very low in his spirits on this return journey. The money which he had spent had been material to him, and the loss of it for the moment left him nearly bare. While he had had before his eyes the hope of being a member of parliament, he had been able to buoy himself up. The position itself would have gone very far with Sexty Parker, and would, he thought, have had some effect even with his father-in-law. But now he was returning a beaten man. Who is there that has not felt that fall from high hope to utter despair which comes from some single failure? As he thought of this, he was conscious that his anger had led him into great imprudence at Silverbridge. He had not been circumspect, as it specially behooved a man to be surrounded by such difficulties as his. All his life he had been schooling his temper so as to keep it under control, sometimes with great difficulty, but always with a consciousness that in his life everything might depend on it. Now he had, alas, allowed it to get the better of him. No doubt he had been insulted, but nevertheless he had been wrong to speak of a horse whip. His one great object must now be to conciliate his father-in-law, and he had certainly increased his difficulty in doing this by his squabble down at Silverbridge. Of course the whole thing would be reported in the London papers, and of course the story would be told against him, as the respectabilities of the town had been opposed to him. But he knew himself to be clever, and he still hoped that he might overcome these difficulties. Then it occurred to him that in doing this he must take care to have his wife entirely on his side. He did not doubt her love, he did not in the least doubt her rectitude, but there was the lamentable fact that she thought well of Arthur Fletcher. It might be that he had been a little too imperious with his wife. It suited his disposition to be imperious within his own household, to be imperious out of it, if that were possible, but he was conscious of having had a fall at Silverbridge, and must for a while take in some sale. He had telegraphed to her, equating her with his defeat, and telling her to expect his return. Oh, Ferdinand, she said, I am so unhappy about this, it has made me so wretched. Better luck next time, he said with his sweetest smile. It is no good groaning over spilt milk. They haven't treated me really well, have they? I suppose not, though I do not understand it all. He was burning to abuse Arthur Fletcher, but he abstained. He would abstain at any rate for the present moment. Dukes and Duchess is a no doubt very grand people, he said, but it is a pity that they should not know how to behave honestly as they expect others to behave to them. The Duchess has thrown me over in the most infernal way. I really can't understand it. When I think of it, I am lost in wonder. The truth is, I suppose, that there has been some quarrel between him and her. Who will get in? Oh, de Bung, no doubt. He did not think so, but he could not bring himself to declare the success of his enemy to her. The people there know him. Your old friend is as much as strange or there as I am. By the way, he and I had a little row in the place. A row, Ferdinand? You needn't look like that, my pet. I haven't killed him. But he came up to speak to me in the street, and I told him what I thought about his writing to you. On hearing this, Emily looked very wretched. I could not restrain myself from doing that. Come, you must admit that he shouldn't have written. He meant it in kindness. That he shouldn't have meant it. Just think of it. Suppose that I had been making up to any girl, which by the by I never did but to one in my life, then he put his arm round her waist and kissed her. And she would have married someone else. What would have been said of me if I had begun to correspond with her immediately? Don't suppose I am blaming you, dear. Certainly I do not suppose that, said Emily. But you must admit that it was rather strong. He paused, but she said nothing. Only I suppose you can bring yourself to admit nothing against him. However, so it was. There was a row and a policeman came up, and they made me give her promise that I didn't mean to shoot him or anything of that kind. As she heard this, she turned pale, but said nothing. Of course I didn't want to shoot him. I wished him to know what I thought about it, and I told him. I hate to trouble you with all this, but I couldn't bear that you shouldn't know it all. It is very sad. Sad enough, I have had plenty to bear, I can tell you. Everybody seemed to turn away from me there. Everybody deserted me. As he said this, he could perceive that he must obtain her sympathy by recounting his own miseries and not Arthur Fletcher's sins. I was all alone and hardly knew how to hold up my head against so much wretchedness, and then I found myself called upon to pay an enormous sum for my expenses. Oh, Ferdinand! Think of their demanding five hundred pounds. Did you pay it? Yes, indeed, I had no alternative. Of course they took care to come for that before they talked of my resigning. I believe it was all planned beforehand. The whole thing seems to me to have been a swindle from beginning to end. By heaven I am almost inclined to think that the Duchess knew all about it herself. About the five hundred pounds? Perhaps not the exact sum, but the way in which the thing was to be done. In these days one doesn't know whom to trust. Men and women too have become so dishonest that nobody is safe anywhere. It has been awfully hard upon me, awfully hard. I don't suppose that there was ever a moment in my life when the loss of five hundred pounds would have been so much to me as it is now. The question is, what will your father do for us? Emily could not but remember her husband's intense desire to obtain money from her father not yet three months since, as though all the world depended on his getting it, and his subsequent elation as though all his sorrows were over forever, because the money had been promised. And now, almost immediately, he was again in the same position. She endeavored to judge him kindly, but a feeling of insecurity and reference to his affairs struck her at once and made her heart cold. Everything had been achieved then by a gift of three thousand pounds, surely a small sum to affect such a result with a man living as her husband lived. And now the whole three thousand pounds was gone, surely a large sum to have vanished in so short a time. Something of the uncertainty of business she could understand, but a business must be perilously uncertain if subject to such vicissitudes as these. But as ideas of this nature crowded themselves into her mind, she told herself again and again that she had taken him for better and for worse. If the worse were already coming, she would still be true to her promise. You had better tell papa everything, she said. Had it not better come from you? No, Ferdinand. Of course I will do as you bid me. I will do anything that I can do. But you had better tell him. His nature is such that he will respect you more if it come from yourself. And that it is so necessary that he should know all, all. She put whatever emphasis she knew how to use upon this word. You could tell him, all, as well as I. You would not bring yourself to tell it to me, nor could I understand it. He will understand everything, and if he thinks that you have told him everything, he will at any rate respect you. He sat silent for a while meditating, feeling always and most acutely that he had been ill-used, never thinking for an instant that he had ill-used others. Three thousand pounds, you know, was no fortune for your father to give you. She had no answer to make, but she groaned in spirit as she heard the accusation. Don't you feel that yourself? I know nothing about money, Ferdinand. If you had told me to speak to him about it before we were married, I would have done so. He ought to have spoken to me. It is marvellous how close fisted an old man can be. He can't take it with him. Then he sat for half an hour in moody silence, during which he was busy with her needle. After that he jumped up with a manner altogether altered, gay, only that the attempt was too visible to deceive even her, and shook himself as though he were ridding himself of his trouble. You are right, old girl, you are always right. I will go to your father tomorrow and tell him everything. It isn't so very much that I want him to do. Things will all come right again. I'm ashamed that you should have seen me this way, but I have been disappointed about the election and troubled about that Mr. Fletcher. You shall not see me give way again like this. Give me a kiss, old girl. She kissed him, but she could not even pretend to recover herself as he had done. Had we not better give up the broom, she said? Certainly not, for heaven's sakes do not speak in that way. You do not understand things. No, certainly I do not. It isn't that I haven't the means of living, but that in my business money is so often required for instant use, and situated as I am at present, an addition to my capital would enable me to do so much. She certainly did not want me to do that. She certainly did not understand it, but she had sufficient knowledge of the world and sufficient common sense to be aware that their present rate of expenditure ought to be a matter of importance to a man who felt the loss of five hundred pounds as he felt that loss at Silverbridge. On the next morning Lopez was at Mr. Wharton's chambers early, so early that the lawyer had not yet reached them. He had resolved not that he would tell everything, for such men never even intend to tell everything, but that he would tell a good deal. He must, if possible, affect the mind of the old man in two ways. He must ingratiate himself, and at the same time make it understood that Emily's comfort in life would depend very much on her father's generosity. The first must be first accomplished, if possible, and then the second as to which he could certainly produce at any rate belief. He had not married a rich man's daughter without an intention of getting the rich man's money. Mr. Wharton would understand that. If the worst came to the worst, Mr. Wharton must, of course, maintain his daughter and his daughter's husband. But things had not come to the worst as yet, and he did not intend on the present occasion to represent that view of his affairs to his father-in-law. Mr. Wharton, when he entered his chambers, found Lopez seated there. He was himself at this moment very unhappy. He had renewed his quarrel with Everett, or Everett, rather, had renewed the quarrel with him. There had been words between them about money lost at cards. Hard words had been used, and Everett had told his father that if either of them were a gambler, it was not he. Mr. Wharton had resented this bitterly and had driven his son from his presence, and now the quarrel made him very wretched. He certainly was sorry that he had called his son a gambler, but his son had been, as he thought, inexcusable in the retort which he had made. He was a man to whom his friends gave credit for much sternness, but still he was one who certainly had no happiness in the world independent of his children. His daughter had left him not, as he thought, under happy auspices, and he was now at this moment soft-hearted and tender in his regards as to her. What was there in the world for him but his children? And now he felt himself to be alone and destitute. He was already tired of wist at the Eldon, that which had been a delight to him once or twice a week became almost loathsome when it was renewed from day to day, and not the less when his son told him that he was also a gambler. So he will come back from Silverbridge, he said. Yes, sir, I have come back, not exactly triumphant. A man should not expect to win always. Lopez had resolved to pluck up his spirit and carry himself like a man. You seem to have got into some scrape down there besides losing your election. Oh, you have seen that in the papers already. I have come to tell you of it, as Emily is concerned in it you want to know. Emily concerned? How is she concerned? Then Lopez told the whole story, after his own fashion, and yet with no palpable lie. Fletcher had written a letter which he thought to be very offensive. On hearing this, Mr. Wharton looked very grave and asked for the letter. Lopez said that he had destroyed it, not thinking that such a document should be preserved. Then he went on to explain that it had had reference to the election, and that he had thought it to be highly improper that Fletcher should write to his wife on that or any other subject. It depends very much on the letter, said the old man. But on any subject, after what has passed, they were very old friends. Of course I will not argue with you, Mr. Wharton, but I own that it angered me. It angered me very much, very much indeed. I took it to be an insult to her, and when he accosted me in the street down at Silverbridge I told him so. I may not have been very wise, but I did it on her behalf. Surely you can understand that such a letter might make a man angry. What did he say? That he would do anything for her sake, even retire from Silverbridge, if his friends would let him. Mr. Wharton scratched his head, and Lopez saw that he was perplexed. Should he have offered to do anything for her sake after what had passed? I know the man so well, said Mr. Wharton, that I cannot and do not believe him to have harboured an improper thought in reference to my child. Perhaps it was an indiscretion only. Perhaps so, I cannot say. And then they took you before the magistrates? Yes, in my anger I had threatened him. There was a policeman at a row, and I had to swear that I would not hurt him. Of course I have no wish to hurt him. I suppose it ruined your chance at Silverbridge. I suppose it did. This was a lie, as Lopez had retired before the row took place. What I care for most now is that you should not think that I have misbehaved myself. The story had been told very well, and Mr. Wharton was almost disposed to sympathize with his son-in-law. That Arthur Fletcher had meant nothing that could be regarded as offensive to his daughter, he was quite sure. But it might be that in making an offer intended to be generous he had used language which the condition of the person's concern made indiscreet. I suppose he said that you spent a lot of money at Silverbridge. This gave Lopez the opening that he wanted, and he described the manner in which the five hundred pounds had been extracted from him. You can't play that game for nothing, said Mr. Wharton. And just at present I could very ill afford it. I should not have done it had I not felt it a pity to neglect such a chance of rising in the world. After all, a seat in the British House of Commons is an honour. Yes, yes, yes. And the Duchess, when she spoke to me about it, was so certain. I will pay the five hundred pounds, said Mr. Wharton. Oh, sir, that is generous. Then he got up and took the old man's hands. Someday when you are at liberty I hope that you will allow me to explain to you the exact state of my affairs. When I wrote to you from Como, I told you that I would wish to do so. You do not object? No, said the lawyer, but with infinite hesitation in his voice. No, I don't object, but I do not know how I could serve them. I shall be busy just now, but I will give you the check. And if you and Emily have nothing better to do, come and dine to-morrow. Lopez, with real tears in his eyes, took the check and promised to come on the morrow. And in the meantime, I wish you would see Everett. Of course, he promised that he would see Everett. Again he was exalted, on this occasion not so much by the acquisition of the money, as by the growing conviction that his father-in-law was a cow capable of being milked. And the quarrel between Everett and his father might clearly be useful to him. He might either serve the old man by reducing Everett to proper submission, or he might manage to creep into the empty space which the son's defection would make in the father's heart and the father's life. He might at any rate make himself necessary to the old man, and become such a part of the household in Manchester Square as to be indispensable. Then the old man would every day become older and more in water of assistance. He thought that he saw the way to worm himself into confidence, and soon into possession. The old man was not a man of iron as he had feared, but quite human, and, if properly managed, soft and malleable. He saw Sexty Parker in the city that day, and used his check for five hundred pounds in some triumphant way, partly cajoling and partly bullying his poor victim. To Sexty also he had to tell his own story about the row down at Silverbridge. He had threatened to thrash the fellow in the street, and the fellow had not dared to come out of his house without a policeman. Yes, he had lost his election. The swindling of those fellows at Silverbridge had been too much for him, but he flattered himself that he had got the better of Master Fletcher. That was the tone in which he told the story to his friend in the city. Then, before dinner, he found Everett at the club. Everett Wharton was to be found there now almost every day. His excuse to himself lay in the political character of the institution. The club intended to do great things, to find liberal candidates for all the boroughs and counties in England which were not hitherto furnished, and then to supply the candidates with money. Such was the great purpose of the progress. It had not as yet sent out many candidates or collected much money. As yet it was politically almost quiescent. And therefore Everett Wharton, whose sense of duty took in there, spent his afternoons either in the wist room or at the billiard table. The story of the Silverbridge Row had to be told again, and was told nearly with the same incidents as it had been narrated to the father. He could, of course, abuse Arthur Fletcher more roundly and be more confident in his assertion that Fletcher had insulted his wife. But he came as quickly as he could to the task which he had on hand. What's all this between you and your father? Simply this, I sometimes play a game of wist, and therefore he called me a gambler. Then I reminded him that he also sometimes played a game of wist, and I asked him what the deduction was to be drawn. He is awfully angry with you.  My father has the whip hand of me, because he has money and I have none, and it was simply kicking against the pricks to speak as I did. And then, too, there isn't a fellow in London has a higher respect for his father than I have, nor yet a warmer affection. But it is hard to be driven in that way. Gambler is a nasty word. Yes, it is very nasty, but I suppose a man does gamble when he loses so much money that he has to ask his father to pay it for him. If he does so often, he gambles, I never ask him for money to pay what I had lost before in my life. I wonder you told him.  What does he want me to do now? I don't know that he wants you to do anything, said Lopez. Did he send you to me? Well, no, I can't say that he did.  I daresay he did. But if you ask me, said Lopez, I think he would take it kindly of you if you were to go and see him. Come and dine today, just as if nothing had happened. I could not do that unless he asked me. I can't say that he asked you, Everett. I would say so, in spite of its being a lie, if I didn't fear that your father might say something unkind, so that the lie would be detected by both of you. And yet you ask me to go dine there? Yes, I do. It's only going away if he does cut up rough, and if he takes it well, why then, the whole thing is done. If he wants me, he can ask me. You talk about it, my boy, just as if a father were the same as anybody else. If I had a father with a lot of money, by George, he should knock me about with his stick if he liked, and I would be just the same the next day. Unfortunately, I am of a stiffer nature, said Everett, taking some pride to himself for his stiffness, and being perhaps as little stiff as any young man of his day. That evening, after dinner in Manchester Square, the conversation between the father-in-law and the son-in-law turned almost exclusively on the son and brother-in-law. Little or nothing was said about the election, and the name of Arthur Fletcher was not mentioned. But out of his full heart, the father spoke, he was wretched about Everett. Did Everett mean to cut him?  Withdraw some name, as he might ask some hot-headed fellow to do of his own age like himself, some fellow that he had quarreled with. Does he expect his father to send him a written apology? He had been gambling, and I told him that he was a gambler. Is that too much for a father to say? Lopez shrugged his shoulders and declared that it was a pity. He will break my heart if he goes on like this, said the old man. I asked him to come and dine today, but he didn't seem to like it. Like it?  When the evening was over, Lopez felt that he had done a good stroke of work. He had not exactly made up his mind to keep the father and son apart. That was not a part of his strategy at any rate as yet. But he did intend to make himself necessary to the old man, to become the old man's son and, if possible, the favorite son. And now he thought that he had already done much towards the achievement of his object. Recording by Leanne Howlett. The Prime Minister by Antony Trollop. Chapter 36 The Jolly Blackbird There was great triumph at long barns when the news of Arthur's victory reached the place, and when he arrived there himself with his friend Mr. Gresham, he was received as a conquering hero. But of course the tidings of the row had gone before him, and it was necessary that both he and Mr. Gresham should tell the story, nor could it be told privately. Sir Alured Wharton was there, and Mrs. Fletcher. The old lady had heard of the row, and of course required to be told all the particulars. This was not pleasant to the hero, as in talking of the man it was impossible for them not to talk of the man's wife.  Sir Alured sighed and said nothing. Certainly a terrible misfortune, and one which affected more or less the whole family of Whartons. Do you mean to say that he was going to attack Arthur with a whip? Asked John Fletcher. I only know that he was standing there with a whip in his hand, said Mr. Gresham. I think he would have had the worst of that. You would have laughed, said Arthur, to see me walking majestically along the high street with a cauldron which Gresham had just bought for me as being of the proper medium size. I don't doubt he meant to have a fight, and then you should have seen the policeman sloping over and putting himself in the way. I never quite understood where that policeman came from. They are very well off for policemen in Silverbridge, said Gresham. They've always got them going about. He must be mad, said John. Poor unfortunate young woman, said Mrs. Fletcher holding up both her hands. I must say that I cannot but blame Mr. Wharton if he had been firm it never would have come to that. I wonder whether he ever sees him. Of course he does, said John. Why shouldn't he see him? You'd see him if he'd married a daughter of yours. Never, exclaimed the old woman. If I had had a child so lost to all respect as that I do not say that I would not have seen her. Human nature might have prevailed, but I would never willingly have put myself into contact with one who had so degraded me and mine. I shall be very anxious to know what Mr. Wharton does about his money, said John. Arthur allowed himself but a couple of days among his friends, and then hurried up to London to take his seat. When there he was astonished to find out how many questions were asked him about the row, and how much was known about it, and at the same time how little was really known. Everybody had heard that there had been a row, and everybody knew that there had been a lady in the case. But there seemed to be a general idea that the lady had been in some way misused, and that Arthur Fletcher had come forward like a paladin to protect her. A letter had been written, and the husband, Ogre-like, had intercepted the letter. The lady was the most unfortunate of human beings, or would have been but for that consolation which she must have in the constancy of her old lover. As to all these matters the stories varied, but everybody was agreed on one point. All the world knew that Arthur Fletcher had gone to Silver Bridge, had stood for the borough, and had taken the seat away from his rival, because that rival had robbed him of his bride. How the robbery had been affected the world could not quite say. The world was still of opinion that the lady was violently attached to the man she had not married. But Captain Gunner explained that all clearly to Major Pounty by asserting that the poor girl had been coerced into the marriage by her father, and thus Arthur Fletcher found himself almost as much a hero in London as at Long Barns. Fletcher had not been above a week in town and had become heartily sick of the rumours which in various shapes made their way round to his own ears when he received an invitation from Mr Wharton to go and dine with him at a tavern called the Jolly Blackbird. The invitation surprised him that he should be asked by such a man to dine at such a place, but he accepted it as a matter of course. He was indeed much interested in a bill for the drainage of common lands which was to be discussed in the house that night. There was a good deal of common land round Silver Bridge, and he had some idea of making his first speech, but he calculated that he might get his dinner and yet be back in time for the debate. So he went to the Jolly Blackbird, a very quaint old-fashioned law dining house in the neighborhood of Portugal Street which had managed not to get itself pulled down a dozen years ago on behalf of the law courts which are to bless some coming generation. Arthur had never been there before and was surprised at the black wanes-coating, the black tables, the old-fashioned grate, the two candles on the table, and the silent waiter. I wanted to see you, Arthur, said the old man, pressing his hand in a melancholy way. But I couldn't ask you to Manchester Square. They come in sometimes in the evening and it might have been unpleasant. At your young men's clubs they let strangers dine. We haven't anything of that kind at the Eldon. You'll find they'll give you a very good bit of fish here and a ferrished steak. Arthur declared that he thought at a capital place, the best fun in the world. And they've a very good bottle of Claret, better than we get at the Eldon, I think. I don't know that I can say much for their champagne. We'll try it. You young fellows always drink champagne. I hardly ever touch it, said Arthur. Sherry and Claret are my wines. Very well, very well. I did want to see you, my boy. Things haven't turned out just as we wished, have they? Not exactly, sir. No indeed, you know the old saying. God disposes it all. I have to make the best of it, and so no doubt do you. There's no doubt about it, sir, said Arthur, speaking in a low but almost angry voice. They were not in a room by themselves, but in a recess which separated them from the room. I don't know that I want to talk about it, but to me it is one of those things for which there is no remedy. When a man loses his leg he hobbles on, and sometimes has a good time of it at last, but there he is, without a leg. It wasn't my fault, Arthur. There has been no fault but my own. I went in for the running and got distanced. That's simply all about it, and there's no more to be said. You ain't surprised that I should wish to see you. I'm ever so much obliged. I think it's very kind of you. I can't go in for a new life as you can. I can't take up politics and parliament. It's too late for me. I'm going to. There's a bill coming on this very night that I'm interested about.  We are going to lend money to the parishes on the security of the rates for draining bits of money. We will have to sell all the land and endow the unions, so as to lessen the poor rates and increase the cereal products of the country. We think we can bring 300,000 acres under the plow in three years, which now produce almost nothing, and in five years would pay all the expenses. Putting the value of the land at 25 pounds an acre, which is low, we shall have created property to the value of seven millions and a half. That's something you know. Oh, yes, said Mr. Wharton, who felt himself quite unable to follow with any interest the aspirations of the young legislator. Of course it's complicated, continued Arthur, but when you come to look into it, it comes out clear enough. It is one of the instances of the omnipotence of capital. Parliament can do such a thing, not because it has any creative power of its own, but because it has the command of unlimited capital. Mr. Wharton looked at him, sighing inwardly as he reflected that unrequited love should have brought a clear-headed young barrister and to miss so thick and labyrinth so mazy as these. A very good beef steak, indeed, said Arthur. I don't know when I ate a better one. Thank you, no. I'll stick to the claret. Mr. Wharton had offered him Madeira. Claret and brown meat always go well together. Pancake. Unan object to a pancake. A pancake's a very good thing. Now, would you believe it, sir? They can't make a pancake at the house. And yet they sometimes fall very flat, too. Said the lawyer, making a real lawyer's joke. It's all in the mixing, sir, said Arthur, carrying it on. We've mixed you enough just at present, but it isn't of the proper sort, too much of the flour and not enough of the egg. But Mr. Wharton had still something to say, though he hardly knew how to say it. You must come and see us in the square after a bit. Oh, of course. I wouldn't ask you to dine there today, because I thought we should be less melancholy here, but you mustn't cut us all together. You haven't seen Everett since you've been in town? No, sir. I believe he lives a good deal. A good deal with Mr. Lopez. There was a little row down at Silverbridge. Of course it will wear off, but just at present his lines and my lines don't converge. I'm very unhappy about him, Arthur. There's nothing to matter. My girl has married that man. I have nothing to say against him, but of course it wasn't to my taste, and I feel it as a separation. And I don't know what to say, but I don't feel it as a separation, and now Everett has quarreled with me. Quarled with you? Then the father told the story as well as he knew how. His son had lost some money, and he had called his son a gambler, and consequently his son would not come near him. It is bad to lose them both, Arthur. That is so unlike Everett. It seems to me that everybody has changed, except myself. Who would have dreamed that she would have married that man? Not that I have anything to say against him, except that he was not of our sort. He has been very good about Everett, and is very good about him. But Everett will not come to me unless I withdraw the word, say that I was wrong to call him a gambler. That is a proposition that no son should make to a father. It is very unlike Everett, repeated the other. Has he written to that effect? He has not written a word. Why don't you see him yourself and have it out with him? Am I to go to that club after him? Said the father. Write to him and bid him come to you. I'll give up my seat if he don't come to you. Everett was always a quaint fellow, a little idle, you know, mooning about after ideas. He's no fool, you know, said the father. Not at all, only vague, but he's the last man in the world to have nasty vulgar ideas of his own importance as distinguished from yours. Lopez says. I wouldn't quite trust Lopez. He isn't a bad fellow in his way, Arthur. Of course, he is not what I would have liked for a son-in-law. I needn't tell you that. But he is kind and gentle-mannered, and has always been attached to Everett.  Arthur could not but smile as he perceived how the old man was being one round by the son-in-law, whom he had treated so violently before the man had become his son-in-law. By the way, what was all that about a letter you wrote to him? Emily, I mean Mrs. Lopez, will tell you if you ask her. I don't want to ask her. I don't want to appear to set the wife against the husband. I am sure, my boy, you would write nothing that could affront her. I think not, Mr. Wharton. If I know myself at all, or my own nature, it is not probable that I should affront your daughter. No, no, no, I know that, my dear boy. I was always sure of that. Take some more wine. No more, thank you. I must be off because I'm so anxious about this bill. I couldn't ask Emily about this letter. Now that they are married, I have to make the best of it, for her sake. I couldn't bring myself to say anything to her which might seem to accuse him. I thought it right, sir, to explain to her that were I not in the hands of other people, I would not do anything to interfere with her happiness by opposing her husband. My language was most guarded. He destroyed the letter. I have a copy of it if it comes to that, said Arthur. It will be best perhaps to say nothing further about it. Well, good night, my boy, if you must go. Then Fletcher went off to the house, wondering as he went at the change which had apparently come over the character of his old friend. Mr. Wharton had always been a strong man, and now he seemed to be as weak as water. As to Everett, Fletcher was sure that there was something wrong, but he could not see his way to interfere himself. For the present he was divided from the family. Nevertheless he told himself again and again that the division should not be permanent. Of all the world she must always be to him the dearest.