Sir Alured felt that he had not as yet begun even to approach the difficult subject. "I'm glad you don't like that man," he said.

"I don't like him at all. Tell me, Sir Alured;—why is he always going to Manchester Square?"

"Ah;—that is it."

"He has been there constantly;—has he not?"

"No;—no. I don't think that. Mr. Wharton doesn't love him a bit better than you do. My cousin thinks him a most objectionable young man."

"But Emily?"

"Ah—. That's where it is."

"You don't mean to say she—cares about that man!"

"He has been encouraged by that aunt of hers, who, as far as I can make out, is a very unfit sort of person to be much with such a girl as our dear Emily. I never saw her but once, and then I didn't like her at all."

"A vulgar, good-natured woman. But what can she have done? She can't have twisted Emily round her finger."

"I don't suppose there is very much in it, but I thought it better to tell you. Girls take fancies into their heads,—just for a time."

"He's a handsome fellow, too," said Arthur Fletcher, musing in his sorrow.

"My cousin says he's a nasty Jew-looking man."

"He's not that, Sir Alured. He's a handsome man, with a fine voice;—dark, and not just like an Englishman; but still I can fancy—. That's bad news for me, Sir Alured."

"I think she'll forget all about him down here."

"She never forgets anything. I shall ask her, straight away. She knows my feeling about her, and I haven't a doubt but she'll tell me. She's too honest to be able to lie. Has he got any money?"

"My cousin seems to think that he's rich."

"I suppose he is. Oh, Lord! That's a blow. I wish I could have the pleasure of shooting him as a man might a few years ago. But what would be the good? The girl would only hate me the more after it. The best thing to do would be to shoot myself."

"Don't talk like that, Arthur."

"I shan't throw up the sponge as long as there's a chance left, Sir Alured. But it will go badly with me if I'm beat at last. I shouldn't have thought it possible that I should have felt anything so much." Then he pulled his hair, and thrust his hand into his waistcoat; and turned away, so that his old friend might not see the tear in his eye.

His old friend also was much moved. It was dreadful to him that the happiness of a Fletcher, and the comfort of the Whartons generally, should be marred by a man with such a name as Ferdinand Lopez. "She'll never marry him without her father's consent," said Sir Alured.

"If she means it, of course he'll consent."

"That I'm sure he won't. He doesn't like the man a bit better than you do." Fletcher shook his head. "And he's as fond of you as though you were already his son."

"What does it matter? If a girl sets her heart on marrying a man, of course she will marry him. If he had no money it might be different. But if he's well off, of course he'll succeed. Well—; I suppose other men have borne the same sort of thing before and it hasn't killed them."

"Let us hope, my boy. I think of her quite as much as of you."

"Yes,—we can hope. I shan't give it up. As for her, I dare say she knows what will suit her best. I've nothing to say against the man,—excepting that I should like to cut him into four quarters."

"But a foreigner!"

"Girls don't think about that,—not as you do and Mr. Wharton. And I think they like dark, greasy men with slippery voices, who are up to dodges and full of secrets. Well, sir, I shall go to her at once and have it out."

"You'll speak to my cousin?"

"Certainly I will. He has always been one of the best friends I ever had in my life. I know it hasn't been his fault. But what can a man do? Girls won't marry this man or that because they're told."

Fletcher did speak to Emily's father, and learned more from him than had been told him by Sir Alured. Indeed he learned the whole truth. Lopez had been twice with the father pressing his suit and had been twice repulsed, with as absolute denial as words could convey. Emily, however, had declared her own feeling openly, expressing her wish to marry the odious man, promising not to do so without her father's consent, but evidently feeling that that consent ought not to be withheld from her. All this Mr. Wharton told very plainly, walking with Arthur a little before dinner along a shaded, lonely path, which for half a mile ran along the very marge of the Wye at the bottom of the park. And then he went on to speak other words which seemed to rob his young friend of all hope. The old man was walking slowly, with his hands clasped behind his back and with his eyes fixed on the path as he went;—and he spoke slowly, evidently weighing his words as he uttered them, bringing home to his hearer a conviction that the matter discussed was one of supreme importance to the speaker,—as to which he had thought much, so as to be able to express his settled resolutions. "I've told you all now, Arthur;—only this. I do not know how long I may be able to resist this man's claim if it be backed by Emily's entreaties. I am thinking very much about it. I do not know that I have really been able to think of anything else for the last two months. It is all the world to me,—what she and Everett do with themselves; and what she may do in this matter of marriage is of infinitely greater importance than anything that can befall him. If he makes a mistake, it may be put right. But with a woman's marrying—, vestigia nulla retrorsum. She has put off all her old bonds and taken new ones, which must be her bonds for life. Feeling this very strongly, and disliking this man greatly,—disliking him, that is to say, in the view of this close relation,—I have felt myself to be justified in so far opposing my child by the use of a high hand. I have refused my sanction to the marriage both to him and to her,—though in truth I have been hard set to find any adequate reason for doing so. I have no right to fashion my girl's life by my prejudices. My life has been lived. Hers is to come. In this matter I should be cruel and unnatural were I to allow myself to be governed by any selfish inclination. Though I were to know that she would be lost to me for ever, I must give way,—if once brought to a conviction that by not giving way I should sacrifice her young happiness. In this matter, Arthur, I must not even think of you, though I love you well. I must consider only my child's welfare;—and in doing so I must try to sift my own feelings and my own judgment, and ascertain, if it be possible, whether my distaste to the man is reasonable or irrational;—whether I should serve her or sacrifice her by obstinacy of refusal. I can speak to you more plainly than to her. Indeed I have laid bare to you my whole heart and my whole mind. You have all my wishes, but you will understand that I do not promise you my continued assistance." When he had so spoken he put out his hand and pressed his companion's arm. Then he turned slowly into a little by-path which led across the park up to the house, and left Arthur Fletcher standing alone by the river's bank.

And so by degrees the blow had come full home to him. He had been twice refused. Then rumours had reached him,—not at first that he had a rival, but that there was a man who might possibly become so. And now this rivalry, and its success, were declared to him plainly. He told himself from this moment that he had not a chance. Looking forward he could see it all. He understood the girl's character sufficiently to be sure that she would not be wafted about, from one lover to another, by change of scene. Taking her to Dresden,—or to New Zealand,—would only confirm in her passion such a girl as Emily Wharton. Nothing could shake her but the ascertained unworthiness of the man,—and not that unless it were ascertained beneath her own eyes. And then years must pass by before she would yield to another lover. There was a further question, too, which he did not fail to ask himself. Was the man necessarily unworthy because his name was Lopez, and because he had not come of English blood?

As he strove to think of this, if not coolly yet rationally, he sat himself down on the river's side and began to pitch stones off the path in among the rocks, among which at that spot the water made its way rapidly. There had been moments in which he had been almost ashamed of his love,—and now he did not know whether to be most ashamed or most proud of it. But he recognised the fact that it was crucifying him, and that it would continue to crucify him. He knew himself in London to be a popular man,—one of those for whom, according to general opinion, girls should sigh, rather than one who should break his heart sighing for a girl. He had often told himself that it was beneath his manliness to be despondent; that he should let such a trouble run from him like water from a duck's back, consoling himself with the reflection that if the girl had such bad taste she could hardly be worthy of him. He had almost tried to belong to that school which throws the heart away and rules by the head alone. He knew that others,—perhaps not those who knew him best, but who nevertheless were the companions of many of his hours,—gave him the credit for such power. Why should a man afflict himself by the inward burden of an unsatisfied craving, and allow his heart to sink into his very feet because a girl would not smile when he wooed her? "If she be not fair for me, what care I how fair she be!" He had repeated the lines to himself a score of times, and had been ashamed of himself because he could not make them come true to himself.

They had not come true in the least. There he was, Arthur Fletcher, whom all the world courted, with his heart in his very boots! There was a miserable load within him, absolutely palpable to his outward feeling,—a very physical pain,—which he could not shake off. As he threw the stones into the water he told himself that it must be so with him always. Though the world did pet him, though he was liked at his club, and courted in the hunting-field, and loved at balls and archery meetings, and reputed by old men to be a rising star, he told himself that he was so maimed and mutilated as to be only half a man. He could not reason about it. Nature had afflicted him with a certain weakness. One man has a hump;—another can hardly see out of his imperfect eyes;—a third can barely utter a few disjointed words. It was his fate to be constructed with some weak arrangement of the blood-vessels which left him in this plight. "The whole damned thing is nothing to me," he said bursting out into absolute tears, after vainly trying to reassure himself by a recollection of the good things which the world still had in store for him.

Then he strove to console himself by thinking that he might take a pride in his love even though it were so intolerable a burden to him. Was it not something to be able to love as he loved? Was it not something at any rate that she to whom he had condescended to stoop was worthy of all love? But even here he could get no comfort,—being in truth unable to see very clearly into the condition of the thing. It was a disgrace to him,—to him within his own bosom,—that she should have preferred to him such a one as Ferdinand Lopez, and this disgrace he exaggerated, ignoring the fact that the girl herself might be deficient in judgment, or led away in her love by falsehood and counterfeit attractions. To him she was such a goddess that she must be right,—and therefore his own inferiority to such a one as Ferdinand Lopez was proved. He could take no pride in his rejected love. He would rid himself of it at a moment's notice if he knew the way. He would throw himself at the feet of some second-rate, tawdry, well-born, well-known beauty of the day,—only that there was not now left to him strength to pretend the feeling that would be necessary. Then he heard steps, and jumping up from his seat, stood just in the way of Emily Wharton and her cousin Mary. "Ain't you going to dress for dinner, young man?" said the latter.

"I shall have time if you have, any way," said Arthur, endeavouring to pluck up his spirits.

"That's nice of him;—isn't it?" said Mary. "Why, we are dressed. What more do you want? We came out to look for you, though we didn't mean to come as far as this. It's past seven now, and we are supposed to dine at a quarter past."

"Five minutes will do for me."

"But you've got to get to the house. You needn't be in a tremendous hurry, because papa has only just come in from haymaking. They've got up the last load, and there has been the usual ceremony. Emily and I have been looking at them."

"I wish I'd been here all the time," said Emily. "I do so hate London in July."

"So do I," said Arthur,—"in July and all other times."

"You hate London!" said Mary.

"Yes,—and Herefordshire,—and other places generally. If I've got to dress I'd better get across the park as quick as I can go," and so he left them. Mary turned round and looked at her cousin, but at the moment said nothing. Arthur's passion was well known to Mary Wharton, but Mary had as yet heard nothing of Ferdinand Lopez.



CHAPTER XVI

Never Run Away!

During the whole of that evening there was a forced attempt on the part of all the party at Wharton Hall to be merry,—which, however, as is the case whenever such attempts are forced, was a failure. There had been a hay-making harvest-home which was supposed to give the special occasion for mirth, as Sir Alured farmed the land around the park himself, and was great in hay. "I don't think it pays very well," he said with a gentle smile, "but I like to employ some of the people myself. I think the old people find it easier with me than with the tenants."

"I shouldn't wonder," said his cousin;—"but that's charity; not employment."

"No, no," exclaimed the baronet. "They work for their wages and do their best. Powell sees to that." Powell was the bailiff, who knew the length of his master's foot to a quarter of an inch, and was quite aware that the Wharton haymakers were not to be overtasked. "Powell doesn't keep any cats about the place, but what catch mice. But I am not quite sure that haymaking does pay."

"How do the tenants manage?"

"Of course they look to things closer. You wouldn't wish me to let the land up to the house door."

"I think," said old Mrs. Fletcher, "that a landlord should consent to lose a little by his own farming. It does good in the long run." Both Mr. Wharton and Sir Alured felt that this might be very well at Longbarns, though it could hardly be afforded at Wharton.

"I don't think I lose much by my farming," said the squire of Longbarns. "I have about four hundred acres on hand, and I keep my accounts pretty regularly."

"Johnson is a very good man, I dare say," said the baronet.

"Like most of the others," continued the squire, "he's very well as long as he's looked after. I think I know as much about it as Johnson. Of course, I don't expect a farmer's profit; but I do expect my rent, and I get it."

"I don't think I manage it quite that way," said the baronet in a melancholy tone.

"I'm afraid not," said the barrister.

"John is as hard upon the men as any one of the tenants," said John's wife, Mrs. Fletcher of Longbarns.

"I'm not hard at all," said John, "and you understand nothing about it. I'm paying three shillings a week more to every man, and eighteen pence a week more to every woman, than I did three years ago."

"That's because of the Unions," said the barrister.

"I don't care a straw for the Unions. If the Unions interfered with my comfort I'd let the land and leave the place."

"Oh, John!" ejaculated John's mother.

"I would not consent to be made a slave even for the sake of the country. But the wages had to be raised,—and having raised them I expect to get proper value for my money. If anything has to be given away, let it be given away,—so that the people should know what it is that they receive."

"That's just what we don't want to do here," said Lady Wharton, who did not often join in any of these arguments.

"You're wrong, my lady," said her stepson. "You're only breeding idleness when you teach people to think that they are earning wages without working for their money. Whatever you do with 'em let 'em know and feel the truth. It'll be the best in the long run."

"I'm sometimes happy when I think that I shan't live to see the long run," said the baronet. This was the manner in which they tried to be merry that evening after dinner at Wharton Hall. The two girls sat listening to their seniors in contented silence,—listening or perhaps thinking of their own peculiar troubles, while Arthur Fletcher held some book in his hand which he strove to read with all his might.

There was not one there in the room who did not know that it was the wish of the united families that Arthur Fletcher should marry Emily Wharton, and also that Emily had refused him. To Arthur of course the feeling that it was so could not but be an additional vexation; but the knowledge had grown up and had become common in the two families without any power on his part to prevent so disagreeable a condition of affairs. There was not one in that room, unless it was Mary Wharton, who was not more or less angry with Emily, thinking her to be perverse and unreasonable. Even to Mary her cousin's strange obstinacy was matter of surprise and sorrow,—for to her Arthur Fletcher was one of those demigods, who should never be refused, who are not expected to do more than express a wish and be accepted. Her own heart had not strayed that way because she thought but little of herself, knowing herself to be portionless, and believing from long thought on the subject that it was not her destiny to be the wife of any man. She regarded Arthur Fletcher as being of all men the most lovable,—though, knowing her own condition, she did not dream of loving him. It did not become her to be angry with another girl on such a cause;—but she was amazed that Arthur Fletcher should sigh in vain.

The girl's folly and perverseness on this head were known to them all,—but as yet her greater folly and worse perverseness, her vitiated taste and dreadful partiality for the Portuguese adventurer, were known but to the two old men and to poor Arthur himself. When that sternly magnificent old lady, Mrs. Fletcher,—whose ancestors had been Welsh kings in the time of the Romans,—when she should hear this story, the roof of the old hall would hardly be able to hold her wrath and her dismay! The old kings had died away, but the Fletchers, and the Vaughans,—of whom she had been one,—and the Whartons remained, a peculiar people in an age that was then surrendering itself to quick perdition, and with peculiar duties. Among these duties, the chiefest of them incumbent on females was that of so restraining their affections that they should never damage the good cause by leaving it. They might marry within the pale,—or remain single, as might be their lot. She would not take upon herself to say that Emily Wharton was bound to accept Arthur Fletcher, merely because such a marriage was fitting,—although she did think that there was much perverseness in the girl, who might have taught herself, had she not been stubborn, to comply with the wishes of the families. But to love one below herself, a man without a father, a foreigner, a black Portuguese nameless Jew, merely because he had a bright eye, and a hook nose, and a glib tongue,—that a girl from the Whartons should do this—! It was so unnatural to Mrs. Fletcher that it would be hardly possible to her to be civil to the girl after she had heard that her mind and taste were so astray. All this Sir Alured knew and the barrister knew it,—and they feared her indignation the more because they sympathised with the old lady's feelings.

"Emily Wharton doesn't seem to me to be a bit more gracious than she used to be," Mrs. Fletcher said to Lady Wharton that night. The two old ladies were sitting together upstairs, and Mrs. John Fletcher was with them. In such conferences Mrs. Fletcher always domineered,—to the perfect contentment of old Lady Wharton, but not equally so to that of her daughter-in-law.

"I'm afraid she is not very happy," said Lady Wharton.

"She has everything that ought to make a girl happy, and I don't know what it is she wants. It makes me quite angry to see her so discontented. She doesn't say a word, but sits there as glum as death. If I were Arthur I would leave her for six months, and never speak to her during the time."

"I suppose, mother," said the younger Mrs. Fletcher,—who called her husband's mother, mother, and her own mother, mamma,—"a girl needn't marry a man unless she likes him."

"But she should try to like him if it is suitable in other respects. I don't mean to take any trouble about it. Arthur needn't beg for any favour. Only I wouldn't have come here if I had thought that she had intended to sit silent like that always."

"It makes her unhappy, I suppose," said Lady Wharton, "because she can't do what we all want."

"Fall, lall! She'd have wanted it herself if nobody else had wished it. I'm surprised that Arthur should be so much taken with her."

"You'd better say nothing more about it, mother."

"I don't mean to say anything more about it. It's nothing to me. Arthur can do very well in the world without Emily Wharton. Only a girl like that will sometimes make a disgraceful match; and we should all feel that."

"I don't think Emily will do anything disgraceful," said Lady Wharton. And so they parted.

In the meantime the two brothers were smoking their pipes in the housekeeper's room, which, at Wharton, when the Fletchers or Everett were there, was freely used for that purpose.

"Isn't it rather quaint of you," said the elder brother, "coming down here in the middle of term time?"

"It doesn't matter much."

"I should have thought it would matter;—that is, if you mean to go on with it."

"I'm not going to make a slave of myself about it, if you mean that. I don't suppose I shall ever marry,—and as for rising to be a swell in the profession, I don't care about it."

"You used to care about it,—very much. You used to say that if you didn't get to the top it shouldn't be your own fault."

"And I have worked;—and I do work. But things get changed somehow. I've half a mind to give it all up,—to raise a lot of money, and to start off with a resolution to see every corner of the world. I suppose a man could do it in about thirty years if he lived so long. It's the kind of thing would suit me."

"Exactly. I don't know any fellow who has been more into society, and therefore you are exactly the man to live alone for the rest of your life. You've always worked hard, I will say that for you;—and therefore you're just the man to be contented with idleness. You've always been ambitious and self-confident, and therefore it will suit you to a T, to be nobody and to do nothing." Arthur sat silent, smoking his pipe with all his might, and his brother continued,—"Besides,—you read sometimes, I fancy."

"I should read all the more."

"Very likely. But what you have read, in the old plays, for instance, must have taught you that when a man is cut up about a woman,—which I suppose is your case just at present,—he never does get over it. He never gets all right after a time,—does he? Such a one had better go and turn monk at once, as the world is over for him altogether;—isn't it? Men don't recover after a month or two, and go on just the same. You've never seen that kind of thing yourself?"

"I'm not going to cut my throat or turn monk either."

"No. There are so many steamboats and railways now that travelling seems easier. Suppose you go as far as St. Petersburg, and see if that does you any good. If it don't, you needn't go on, because it will be hopeless. If it does,—why, you can come back, because the second journey will do the rest."

"There never was anything, John, that wasn't matter for chaff with you."

"And I hope there never will be. People understand it when logic would be thrown away. I suppose the truth is the girl cares for somebody else." Arthur nodded his head. "Who is it? Any one I know?"

"I think not."

"Any one you know?"

"I have met the man."

"Decent?"

"Disgustingly indecent, I should say." John looked very black, for even with him the feeling about the Whartons and the Vaughans and the Fletchers was very strong. "He's a man I should say you wouldn't let into Longbarns."

"There might be various reasons for that. It might be that you wouldn't care to meet him."

"Well;—no,—I don't suppose I should. But without that you wouldn't like him. I don't think he's an Englishman."

"A foreigner!"

"He has got a foreign name."

"An Italian nobleman?"

"I don't think he's noble in any country."

"Who the d—— is he?"

"His name is—Lopez."

"Everett's friend?"

"Yes;—Everett's friend. I ain't very much obliged to Master Everett for what he has done."

"I've seen the man. Indeed, I may say I know him,—for I dined with him once in Manchester Square. Old Wharton himself must have asked him there."

"He was there as Everett's friend. I only heard all this to-day, you know;—though I had heard about it before."

"And therefore you want to set out on your travels. As far as I saw I should say he is a clever fellow."

"I don't doubt that."

"And a gentleman."

"I don't know that he is not," said Arthur. "I've no right to say a word against him. From what Wharton says I suppose he's rich."

"He's good looking too;—at least he's the sort of man that women like to look at."

"Just so. I've no cause of quarrel with him,—nor with her. But—."

"Yes, my friend, I see it all," said the elder brother. "I think I know all about it. But running away is not the thing. One may be pretty nearly sure that one is right when one says that a man shouldn't run away from anything."

"The thing is to be happy if you can," said Arthur.

"No;—that is not the thing. I'm not much of a philosopher, but as far as I can see there are two philosophies in the world. The one is to make one's self happy, and the other is to make other people happy. The latter answers the best."

"I can't add to her happiness by hanging about London."

"That's a quibble. It isn't her happiness we are talking about,—nor yet your hanging about London. Gird yourself up and go on with what you've got to do. Put your work before your feelings. What does a poor man do, who goes out hedging and ditching with a dead child lying in his house? If you get a blow in the face, return it if it ought to be returned, but never complain of the pain. If you must have your vitals eaten into,—have them eaten into like a man. But, mind you,—these ain't your vitals."

"It goes pretty near."

"These ain't your vitals. A man gets cured of it,—almost always. I believe always; though some men get hit so hard they can never bring themselves to try it again. But tell me this. Has old Wharton given his consent?"

"No. He has refused," said Arthur with strong emphasis.

"How is it to be, then?"

"He has dealt very fairly by me. He has done all he could to get rid of the man,—both with him and with her. He has told Emily that he will have nothing to do with the man. And she will do nothing without his sanction."

"Then it will remain just as it is."

"No, John; it will not. He has gone on to say that though he has refused,—and has refused roughly enough,—he must give way if he sees that she has really set her heart upon him. And she has."

"Has she told you so?"

"No;—but he has told me. I shall have it out with her to-morrow, if I can. And then I shall be off."

"You'll be here for shooting on the 1st?"

"No. I dare say you're right in what you say about sticking to my work. It does seem unmanly to run away because of a girl."

"Because of anything! Stop and face it, whatever it is."

"Just so;—but I can't stop and face her. It would do no good. For all our sakes I should be better away. I can get shooting with Musgrave and Carnegie in Perthshire. I dare say I shall go there, and take a share with them."

"That's better than going into all the quarters of the globe."

"I didn't mean that I was to surrender and start at once. You take a fellow up so short. I shall do very well, I've no doubt, and shall be hunting here as jolly as ever at Christmas. But a fellow must say it all to somebody." The elder brother put his hand out and laid it affectionately upon the younger one's arm. "I'm not going to whimper about the world like a whipped dog. The worst of it is so many people have known of this."

"You mean down here."

"Oh;—everywhere. I have never told them. It has been a kind of family affair and thought to be fit for general discussions."

"That'll wear away."

"In the meantime it's a bore. But that shall be the end of it. Don't you say another word to me about it, and I won't to you. And tell mother not to, or Sarah." Sarah was John Fletcher's wife. "It has got to be dropped, and let us drop it as quickly as we can. If she does marry this man I don't suppose she'll be much at Longbarns or Wharton."

"Not at Longbarns certainly, I should say," replied John. "Fancy mother having to curtsey to her as Mrs. Lopez! And I doubt whether Sir Alured would like him. He isn't of our sort. He's too clever, too cosmopolitan,—a sort of man white-washed of all prejudices, who wouldn't mind whether he ate horseflesh or beef if horseflesh were as good as beef, and never had an association in his life. I'm not sure that he's not on the safest side. Good night, old fellow. Pluck up, and send us plenty of grouse if you do go to Scotland."

John Fletcher, as I hope may have been already seen, was by no means a weak man or an indifferent brother. He was warm-hearted, sharp-witted, and, though perhaps a little self-opinionated, considered throughout the county to be one of the most prudent in it. Indeed no one ever ventured to doubt his wisdom on all practical matters,—save his mother, who seeing him almost every day, had a stronger bias towards her younger son. "Arthur has been hit hard about that girl," he said to his wife that night.

"Emily Wharton?"

"Yes;—your cousin Emily. Don't say anything to him, but be as good to him as you know how."

"Good to Arthur! Am I not always good to him?"

"Be a little more than usually tender with him. It makes one almost cry to see such a fellow hurt like that. I can understand it, though I never had anything of it myself."

"You never had, John," said the wife leaning close upon the husband's breast as she spoke. "It all came very easily to you;—too easily perhaps."

"If any girl had ever refused me, I should have taken her at her word, I can tell you. There would have been no second 'hop' to that ball."

"Then I suppose I was right to catch it the first time?"

"I don't say how that may be."

"I was right. Oh, dear me!—Suppose I had doubted, just for once, and you had gone off. You would have tried once more;—wouldn't you?"

"You'd have gone about like a broken-winged old hen, and have softened me that way."

"And now poor Arthur has had his wing broken."

"You mustn't let on to know that it's broken, and the wing will be healed in due time. But what fools girls are!"

"Indeed they are, John;—particularly me."

"Fancy a girl like Emily Wharton," said he, not condescending to notice her little joke, "throwing over a fellow like Arthur for a greasy, black foreigner."

"A foreigner!"

"Yes;—a man named Lopez. Don't say anything about it at present. Won't she live to find out the difference, and to know what she has done! I can tell her of one that won't pity her."



CHAPTER XVII

Good-Bye

Arthur Fletcher received his brother's teaching as true, and took his brother's advice in good part;—so that, before the morning following, he had resolved that however deep the wound might be, he would so live before the world, that the world should not see his wound. What people already knew they must know,—but they should learn nothing further either by words or signs from him. He would, as he had said to his brother, "have it out with Emily"; and then, if she told him plainly that she loved the man, he would bid her adieu, simply expressing regret that their course for life should be divided. He was confident that she would tell him the entire truth. She would be restrained neither by false modesty, nor by any assumed unwillingness to discuss her own affairs with a friend so true to her as he had been. He knew her well enough to be sure that she recognised the value of his love though she could not bring herself to accept it. There are rejected lovers who, merely because they are lovers, become subject to the scorn and even to the disgust of the girls they love. But again there are men who, even when they are rejected, are almost loved, who are considered to be worthy of all reverence, almost of worship;—and yet the worshippers will not love them. Not analysing all this, but somewhat conscious of the light in which this girl regarded him, he knew that what he might say would be treated with deference. As to shaking her,—as to talking her out of one purpose and into another,—that to him did not for a moment seem to be practicable. There was no hope of that. He hardly knew why he should endeavour to say a word to her before he left Wharton. And yet he felt that it must be said. Were he to allow her to be married to this man, without any further previous word between them, it would appear that he had resolved to quarrel with her for ever. But now, at this very moment of time, as he lay in his bed, as he dressed himself in the morning, as he sauntered about among the new hay-stacks with his pipe in his mouth after breakfast, he came to some conclusion in his mind very much averse to such quarrelling.

He had loved her with all his heart. It had not been a mere drawing-room love begotten between a couple of waltzes, and fostered by five minutes in a crush. He knew himself to be a man of the world, and he did not wish to be other than he was. He could talk among men as men talked, and act as men acted;—and he could do the same with women. But there was one person who had been to him above all, and round everything, and under everything. There had been a private nook within him into which there had been no entrance but for the one image. There had been a holy of holies, which he had guarded within himself, keeping it free from all outer contamination for his own use. He had cherished the idea of a clear fountain of ever-running water which would at last be his, always ready for the comfort of his own lips. Now all his hope was shattered, his trust was gone, and his longing disappointed. But the person was the same person, though she could not be his. The nook was there, though she would not fill it. The holy of holies was not less holy, though he himself might not dare to lift the curtain. The fountain would still run,—still the clearest fountain of all,—though he might not put his lips to it. He would never allow himself to think of it with lessened reverence, or with changed ideas as to her nature.

And then, as he stood leaning against a ladder which still kept its place against one of the hay-ricks, and filled his second pipe unconsciously, he had to realise to himself the probable condition of his future life. Of course she would marry this man with very little further delay. Her father had already declared himself to be too weak to interfere much longer with her wishes. Of course Mr. Wharton would give way. He had himself declared that he would give way. And then,—what sort of life would be her life? No one knew anything about the man. There was an idea that he was rich,—but wealth such as his, wealth that is subject to speculation, will fly away at a moment's notice. He might be cruel, a mere adventurer, or a thorough ruffian for all that was known of him. There should, thought Arthur Fletcher to himself, be more stability in the giving and taking of wives than could be reckoned upon here. He became old in that half-hour, taking home to himself and appreciating many saws of wisdom and finger-directions of experience which hitherto had been to him matters almost of ridicule. But he could only come to this conclusion,—that as she was still to be to him his holy of holies though he might not lay his hand upon the altar, his fountain though he might not drink of it, the one image which alone could have filled that nook, he would not cease to regard her happiness when she should have become the wife of this stranger. With the stranger himself he never could be on friendly terms;—but for the stranger's wife there should always be a friend, if the friend were needed.

About an hour before lunch, John Fletcher, who had been hanging about the house all the morning in a manner very unusual to him, caught Emily Wharton as she was passing through the hall, and told her that Arthur was in a certain part of the grounds and wished to speak to her. "Alone?" she asked. "Yes, certainly alone." "Ought I to go to him, John?" she asked again. "Certainly I think you ought." Then he had done his commission and was able to apply himself to whatever business he had on hand.

Emily at once put on her hat, took her parasol, and left the house. There was something distasteful to her in the idea of this going out at a lover's bidding, to meet him; but like all Whartons and all Fletchers, she trusted John Fletcher. And then she was aware that there were circumstances which might make such a meeting as this serviceable. She knew nothing of what had taken place during the last four-and-twenty hours. She had no idea that in consequence of words spoken to him by her father and his brother, Arthur Fletcher was about to abandon his suit. There would have been no doubt about her going to meet him had she thought this. She supposed that she would have to hear again the old story. If so, she would hear it, and would then have an opportunity of telling him that her heart had been given entirely to another. She knew all that she owed to him. After a fashion she did love him. He was entitled to all kindest consideration from her hands. But he should be told the truth.

As she entered the shrubbery he came out to meet her, giving her his hand with a frank, easy air and a pleasant smile. His smile was as bright as the ripple of the sea, and his eye would then gleam, and the slightest sparkle of his white teeth would be seen between his lips, and the dimple of his chin would show itself deeper than at other times. "It is very good of you. I thought you'd come. John asked you, I suppose."

"Yes;—he told me you were here, and he said I ought to come."

"I don't know about ought, but I think it better. Will you mind walking on, as I've got something that I want to say?" Then he turned and she turned with him into the little wood. "I'm not going to bother you any more, my darling," he said. "You are still my darling, though I will not call you so after this." Her heart sank almost in her bosom as she heard this,—though it was exactly what she would have wished to hear. But now there must be some close understanding between them and some tenderness. She knew how much she had owed him, how good he had been to her, how true had been his love; and she felt that words would fail her to say that which ought to be said. "So you have given yourself to—one Ferdinand Lopez!"

"Yes," she said, in a hard, dry voice. "Yes; I have. I do not know who told you; but I have."

"Your father told me. It was better,—was it not?—that I should know. You are not sorry that I should know?"

"It is better."

"I am not going to say a word against him."

"No;—do not do that."

"Nor against you. I am simply here now to let you know that—I retire."

"You will not quarrel with me, Arthur?"

"Quarrel with you! I could not quarrel with you, if I would. No;—there shall be no quarrel. But I do not suppose we shall see each other very often."

"I hope we may."

"Sometimes, perhaps. A man should not, I think, affect to be friends with a successful rival. I dare say he is an excellent fellow, but how is it possible that he and I should get on together? But you will always have one,—one besides him,—who will love you best in this world."

"No;—no;—no."

"It must be so. There will be nothing wrong in that. Every one has some dearest friend, and you will always be mine. If anything of evil should ever happen to you,—which of course there won't,—there would be some one who would—. But I don't want to talk buncum; I only want you to believe me. Good-bye, and God bless you." Then he put out his right hand, holding his hat under his left arm.

"You are not going away?"

"To-morrow, perhaps. But I will say my real good-bye to you here, now, to-day. I hope you may be happy. I hope it with all my heart. Good-bye. God bless you!"

"Oh, Arthur!" Then she put her hand in his.

"Oh, I have loved you so dearly. It has been with my whole heart. You have never quite understood me, but it has been as true as heaven. I have thought sometimes that had I been a little less earnest about it, I should have been a little less stupid. A man shouldn't let it get the better of him, as I have done. Say good-bye to me, Emily."

"Good-bye," she said, still leaving her hand in his.

"I suppose that's about all. Don't let them quarrel with you here if you can help it. Of course at Longbarns they won't like it for a time. Oh,—if it could have been different!" Then he dropped her hand, and turning his back quickly upon her, went away along the path.

She had expected and had almost wished that he should kiss her. A girl's cheek is never so holy to herself as it is to her lover,—if he do love her. There would have been something of reconciliation, something of a promise of future kindness in a kiss, which even Ferdinand would not have grudged. It would, for her, have robbed the parting of that bitterness of pain which his words had given to it. As to all that, he had made no calculation; but the bitterness was there for him, and he could have done nothing that would have expelled it.

She wept bitterly as she returned to the house. There might have been cause for joy. It was clear enough that her father, though he had shown no sign to her of yielding, was nevertheless prepared to yield. It was her father who had caused Arthur Fletcher to take himself off, as a lover really dismissed. But, at this moment, she could not bring herself to look at that aspect of the affair. Her mind would revert to all those choicest moments in her early years in which she had been happy with Arthur Fletcher; in which she had first learned to love him, and had then taught herself to understand by some confused and perplexed lesson that she did not love him as men and women love. But why should she not so have loved him? Would she not have done so could she then have understood how true and firm he was? And then, independently of herself, throwing herself aside for the time as she was bound to do when thinking of one so good to her as Arthur Fletcher, she found that no personal joy could drown the grief which she shared with him. For a moment the idea of a comparison between the two men forced itself upon her,—but she drove it from her as she hurried back to the house.



CHAPTER XVIII

The Duke of Omnium Thinks of Himself

The blaze made by the Duchess of Omnium during the three months of the season up in London had been very great, but it was little in comparison with the social coruscation expected to be achieved at Gatherum Castle,—little at least as far as public report went, and the general opinion of the day. No doubt the house in Carlton Gardens had been thrown open as the house of no Prime Minister, perhaps of no duke, had been opened before in this country; but it had been done by degrees, and had not been accompanied by such a blowing of trumpets as was sounded with reference to the entertainments at Gatherum. I would not have it supposed that the trumpets were blown by the direct order of the Duchess. The trumpets were blown by the customary trumpeters as it became known that great things were to be done,—all newspapers and very many tongues lending their assistance, till the sounds of the instruments almost frightened the Duchess herself. "Isn't it odd," she said to her friend, Mrs. Finn, "that one can't have a few friends down in the country without such a fuss about it as the people are making?" Mrs. Finn did not think that it was odd, and so she said. Thousands of pounds were being spent in a very conspicuous way. Invitations to the place even for a couple of days,—for twenty-four hours,—had been begged for abjectly. It was understood everywhere that the Prime Minister was bidding for greatness and popularity. Of course the trumpets were blown very loudly. "If people don't take care," said the Duchess, "I'll put everybody off and have the whole place shut up. I'd do it for sixpence, now."

Perhaps of all the persons, much or little concerned, the one who heard the least of the trumpets,—or rather who was the last to hear them,—was the Duke himself. He could not fail to see something in the newspapers, but what he did see did not attract him so frequently or so strongly as it did others. It was a pity, he thought, that a man's social and private life should be made subject to so many remarks, but this misfortune was one of those to which wealth and rank are liable. He had long recognised that fact, and for a time endeavoured to believe that his intended sojourn at Gatherum Castle was not more public than are the autumn doings of other dukes and other prime ministers. But gradually the trumpets did reach even his ears. Blind as he was to many things himself, he always had near to him that other duke who was never blind to anything. "You are going to do great things at Gatherum this year," said the Duke.

"Nothing particular, I hope," said the Prime Minister, with an inward trepidation,—for gradually there had crept upon him a fear that his wife was making a mistake.

"I thought it was going to be very particular."

"It's Glencora's doing."

"I don't doubt but that her Grace is right. Don't suppose that I am criticizing your hospitality. We are to be at Gatherum ourselves about the end of the month. It will be the first time I shall have seen the place since your uncle's time."

The Prime Minister at this moment was sitting in his own particular room at the Treasury Chambers, and before the entrance of his friend had been conscientiously endeavouring to define for himself, not a future policy, but the past policy of the last month or two. It had not been for him a very happy occupation. He had become the Head of the Government,—and had not failed, for there he was, still the Head of the Government, with a majority at his back, and the six months' vacation before him. They who were entitled to speak to him confidentially as to his position, were almost vehement in declaring his success. Mr. Rattler, about a week ago, had not seen any reason why the Ministry should not endure at least for the next four years. Mr. Roby, from the other side, was equally confident. But, on looking back at what he had done, and indeed on looking forward into his future intentions, he could not see why he, of all men, should be Prime Minister. He had once been Chancellor of the Exchequer, filling that office through two halcyon Sessions, and he had known the reason why he had held it. He had ventured to assure himself at the time that he was the best man whom his party could then have found for that office, and he had been satisfied. But he had none of that satisfaction now. There were men under him who were really at work. The Lord Chancellor had legal reforms on foot. Mr. Monk was busy, heart and soul, in regard to income tax and brewers' licences,—making our poor Prime Minister's mouth water. Lord Drummond was active among the colonies. Phineas Finn had at any rate his ideas about Ireland. But with the Prime Minister,—so at least the Duke told himself,—it was all a blank. The policy confided to him and expected at his hands was that of keeping together a Coalition Ministry. That was a task that did not satisfy him. And now, gradually,—very slowly indeed at first, but still with a sure step,—there was creeping upon him the idea that his power of cohesion was sought for, and perhaps found, not in his political capacity, but in his rank and wealth. It might, in fact, be the case that it was his wife the Duchess,—that Lady Glencora of whose wild impulses and general impracticability he had always been in dread,—that she with her dinner parties and receptions, with her crowded saloons, her music, her picnics, and social temptations, was Prime Minister rather than he himself. It might be that this had been understood by the coalesced parties,—by everybody, in fact, except himself. It had, perhaps, been found that in the state of things then existing, a ministry could be best kept together, not by parliamentary capacity, but by social arrangements, such as his Duchess, and his Duchess alone, could carry out. She and she only would have the spirit and the money and the sort of cleverness required. In such a state of things he of course, as her husband, must be the nominal Prime Minister.

There was no anger in his bosom as he thought of this. It would be hardly just to say that there was jealousy. His nature was essentially free from jealousy. But there was shame,—and self-accusation at having accepted so great an office with so little fixed purpose as to great work. It might be his duty to subordinate even his pride to the service of his country, and to consent to be a faineant minister, a gilded Treasury log, because by remaining in that position he would enable the Government to be carried on. But how base the position, how mean, how repugnant to that grand idea of public work which had hitherto been the motive power of all his life! How would he continue to live if this thing were to go on from year to year,—he pretending to govern while others governed,—stalking about from one public hall to another in a blue ribbon, taking the highest place at all tables, receiving mock reverence, and known to all men as faineant First Lord of the Treasury? Now, as he had been thinking of all this, the most trusted of his friends had come to him, and had at once alluded to the very circumstances which had been pressing so heavily on his mind. "I was delighted," continued the elder Duke, "when I heard that you had determined to go to Gatherum Castle this year."

"If a man has a big house I suppose he ought to live in it, sometimes."

"Certainly. It was for such purposes as this now intended that your uncle built it. He never became a public man, and therefore, though he went there, every year I believe, he never really used it."

"He hated it,—in his heart. And so do I. And so does Glencora. I don't see why any man should have his private life interrupted by being made to keep a huge caravansary open for persons he doesn't care a straw about."

"You would not like to live alone."

"Alone,—with my wife and children,—I would certainly, during a portion of the year at least."

"I doubt whether such a life, even for a month, even for a week, is compatible with your duties. You would hardly find it possible. Could you do without your private secretaries? Would you know enough of what is going on, if you did not discuss matters with others? A man cannot be both private and public at the same time."

"And therefore one has to be chopped up, like 'a reed out of the river,' as the poet said, 'and yet not give sweet music afterwards.'" The Duke of St. Bungay said nothing in answer to this, as he did not understand the chopping of the reed. "I'm afraid I've been wrong about this collection of people down at Gatherum," continued the younger Duke. "Glencora is impulsive, and has overdone the thing. Just look at that." And he handed a letter to his friend. The old Duke put on his spectacles and read the letter through,—which ran as follows:

Private.

MY LORD DUKE,—

I do not doubt but that your Grace is aware of my position in regard to the public press of the country, and I beg to assure your Grace that my present proposition is made, not on account of the great honour and pleasure which would be conferred upon myself should your Grace accede to it, but because I feel assured that I might so be best enabled to discharge an important duty for the benefit of the public generally.

Your Grace is about to receive the whole fashionable world of England and many distinguished foreign ambassadors at your ancestral halls, not solely for social delight,—for a man in your Grace's high position is not able to think only of a pleasant life,—but in order that the prestige of your combined Ministry may be so best maintained. That your Grace is thereby doing a duty to your country no man who understands the country can doubt. But it must be the case that the country at large should interest itself in your festivities, and should demand to have accounts of the gala doings of your ducal palace. Your Grace will probably agree with me that these records could be better given by one empowered by yourself to give them, by one who had been present, and who would write in your Grace's interest, than by some interloper who would receive his tale only at second hand.

It is my purport now to inform your Grace that should I be honoured by an invitation to your Grace's party at Gatherum, I should obey such a call with the greatest alacrity, and would devote my pen and the public organ which is at my disposal to your Grace's service with the readiest good-will.

I have the honour to be, My Lord Duke, Your Grace's most obedient And very humble servant,

QUINTUS SLIDE.

The old Duke, when he had read the letter, laughed heartily. "Isn't that a terribly bad sign of the times?" said the younger.

"Well;—hardly that, I think. The man is both a fool and a blackguard; but I don't think we are therefore to suppose that there are many fools and blackguards like him. I wonder what he really has wanted."

"He has wanted me to ask him to Gatherum."

"He can hardly have expected that. I don't think he can have been such a fool. He may have thought that there was a possible off chance, and that he would not lose even that for want of asking. Of course you won't notice it."

"I have asked Warburton to write to him, saying that he cannot be received at my house. I have all letters answered unless they seem to have come from insane persons. Would it not shock you if your private arrangements were invaded in that way?"

"He can't invade you."

"Yes he can. He does. That is an invasion. And whether he is there or not, he can and will write about my house. And though no one else will make himself such a fool as he has done by his letter, nevertheless even that is a sign of what others are doing. You yourself were saying just now that we were going to do something,—something particular, you said."

"It was your word, and I echoed it. I suppose you are going to have a great many people?"

"I am afraid Glencora has overdone it. I don't know why I should trouble you by saying so, but it makes me uneasy."

"I can't see why."

"I fear she has got some idea into her head of astounding the world by display."

"I think she has got an idea of conquering the world by graciousness and hospitality."

"It is as bad. It is, indeed, the same thing. Why should she want to conquer what we call the world? She ought to want to entertain my friends because they are my friends; and if from my public position I have more so-called friends than would trouble me in a happier condition of private life, why, then, she must entertain more people. There should be nothing beyond that. The idea of conquering people, as you call it, by feeding them, is to me abominable. If it goes on it will drive me mad. I shall have to give up everything, because I cannot bear the burden." This he said with more excitement, with stronger passion, than his friend had ever seen in him before; so much so that the old Duke was frightened. "I ought never to have been where I am," said the Prime Minister, getting up from his chair and walking about the room.

"Allow me to assure you that in that you are decidedly mistaken," said his Grace of St. Bungay.

"I cannot make even you see the inside of my heart in such a matter as this," said his Grace of Omnium.

"I think I do. It may be that in saying so I claim for myself greater power than I possess, but I think I do. But let your heart say what it may on the subject, I am sure of this,—that when the Sovereign, by the advice of two outgoing Ministers, and with the unequivocally expressed assent of the House of Commons, calls on a man to serve her and the country, that man cannot be justified in refusing, merely by doubts about his own fitness. If your health is failing you, you may know it, and say so. Or it may be that your honour,—your faith to others,—should forbid you to accept the position. But of your own general fitness you must take the verdict given by such general consent. They have seen clearer than you have done what is required, and know better than you can know how that which is wanted is to be secured."

"If I am to be here and do nothing, must I remain?"

"A man cannot keep together the Government of a country and do nothing. Do not trouble yourself about this crowd at Gatherum. The Duchess, easily, almost without exertion, will do that which to you, or to me either, would be impossible. Let her have her way, and take no notice of the Quintus Slides." The Prime Minister smiled, as though this repeated allusion to Mr. Slide's letter had brought back his good humour, and said nothing further then as to his difficulties. There were a few words to be spoken as to some future Cabinet meeting, something perhaps to be settled as to some man's work or position, a hint to be given, and a lesson to be learned,—for of these inner Cabinet Councils between these two statesmen there was frequent use; and then the Duke of St. Bungay took his leave.

Our Duke, as soon as his friend had left him, rang for his private secretary, and went to work diligently, as though nothing had disturbed him. I do not know that his labours on that occasion were of a very high order. Unless there be some special effort of lawmaking before the country, some reform bill to be passed, some attempt at education to be made, some fetters to be forged or to be relaxed, a Prime Minister is not driven hard by the work of his portfolio,—as are his colleagues. But many men were in want of many things, and contrived by many means to make their wants known to the Prime Minister. A dean would fain be a bishop, or a judge a chief justice, or a commissioner a chairman, or a secretary a commissioner. Knights would fain be baronets, baronets barons, and barons earls. In one guise or another the wants of gentlemen were made known, and there was work to be done. A ribbon cannot be given away without breaking the hearts of, perhaps, three gentlemen and of their wives and daughters. And then he went down to the House of Lords,—for the last time this Session as far as work was concerned. On the morrow legislative work would be over, and the gentlemen of Parliament would be sent to their country houses, and to their pleasant country joys.

It had been arranged that on the day after the prorogation of Parliament the Duchess of Omnium should go down to Gatherum to prepare for the coming of the people, which was to commence about three days later, taking her ministers, Mrs. Finn and Locock, with her; and that her husband with his private secretaries and dispatch boxes was to go for those three days to Matching, a smaller place than Gatherum, but one to which they were much better accustomed. If, as the Duchess thought to be not unlikely, the Duke should prolong his stay for a few days at Matching, she felt confident that she would be able to bear the burden of the Castle on her own shoulders. She had thought it to be very probable that he would prolong his stay at Matching, and if the absence were not too long, this might be well explained to the assembled company. In the Duchess's estimation a Prime Minister would lose nothing by pleading the nature of his business as an excuse for such absence,—or by having such a plea made for him. Of course he must appear at last. But as to that she had no fear. His timidity, and his conscience also, would both be too potent to allow him to shirk the nuisance of Gatherum altogether. He would come, she was sure; but she did not much care how long he deferred his coming. She was, therefore, not a little surprised when he announced to her an alteration in his plans. This he did not many hours after the Duke of St. Bungay had left him at the Treasury Chambers. "I think I shall go down with you at once to Gatherum," he said.

"What is the meaning of that?" The Duchess was not skilled in hiding her feelings, at any rate from him, and declared to him at once by her voice and eye that the proposed change was not gratifying to her.

"It will be better. I had thought that I would get a quiet day or two at Matching. But as the thing has to be done, it may as well be done at first. A man ought to receive his own guests. I can't say that I look forward to any great pleasure in doing so on this occasion;—but I shall do it." It was very easy to understand also the tone of his voice. There was in it something of offended dignity, something of future marital intentions,—something also of the weakness of distress.

She did not want him to come at once to Gatherum. A great deal of money was being spent, and the absolute spending was not yet quite perfected. There might still be possibility of interference. The tents were not all pitched. The lamps were not as yet all hung in the conservatories. Waggons would still be coming in and workmen still be going out. He would think less of what had been done if he could be kept from seeing it while it was being done. And the greater crowd which would be gathered there by the end of the first week would carry off the vastness of the preparations. As to money, he had given her almost carte blanche, having at one vacillatory period of his Prime Ministership been talked by her into some agreement with her own plans. And in regard to money he would say to himself that he ought not to interfere with any whim of hers on that score, unless he thought it right to crush the whim on some other score. Half what he possessed had been hers, and even if during this year he were to spend more than his income,—if he were to double or even treble the expenditure of past years,—he could not consume the additions to his wealth which had accrued and heaped themselves up since his marriage. He had therefore written a line to his banker, and a line to his lawyer, and he had himself seen Locock, and his wife's hands had been loosened. "I didn't think, your Grace," said Locock, "that his Grace would be so very—very—very—" "Very what, Locock?" "So very free, your Grace." The Duchess, as she thought of it, declared to herself that her husband was the truest nobleman in all England. She revered, admired, and almost loved him. She knew him to be infinitely better than herself. But she could hardly sympathise with him, and was quite sure that he did not sympathise with her. He was so good about the money! But yet it was necessary that he should be kept in the dark as to the spending of a good deal of it. Now he was going to upset a portion of her plans by coming to Gatherum before he was wanted. She knew him to be obstinate, but it might be possible to turn him back to his old purpose by clever manipulation.

"Of course it would be much nicer for me," she said.

"That alone would be sufficient."

"Thanks, dear. But we had arranged for people to come at first whom I thought you would not specially care to meet. Sir Orlando and Mr. Rattler will be there with their wives."

"I have become quite used to Sir Orlando and Mr. Rattler."

"No doubt, and therefore I wanted to spare you something of their company. The Duke, whom you really do like, isn't coming yet. I thought, too, you would have your work to finish off."

"I fear it is of a kind that won't bear finishing off. However, I have made up my mind, and have already told Locock to send word to the people at Matching to say that I shall not be there yet. How long will all this last at Gatherum?"

"Who can say?"

"I should have thought you could. People are not coming, I suppose, for an indefinite time."

"As one set leaves, one asks others."

"Haven't you asked enough as yet? I should like to know when we may expect to get away from the place."

"You needn't stay till the end, you know."

"But you must."

"Certainly."

"And I should wish you to go with me, when we do go to Matching."

"Oh, Plantagenet," said the wife, "what a Darby and Joan kind of thing you like to have it!"

"Yes, I do. The Darby and Joan kind of thing is what I like."

"Only Darby is to be in an office all day, and in Parliament all night,—and Joan is to stay at home."

"Would you wish me not to be in an office, and not to be in Parliament? But don't let us misunderstand each other. You are doing the best you can to further what you think to be my interests."

"I am," said the Duchess.

"I love you the better for it, day by day." This so surprised her, that as she took him by the arm, her eyes were filled with tears. "I know that you are working for me quite as hard as I work myself, and that you are doing so with the pure ambition of seeing your husband a great man."

"And myself a great man's wife."

"It is the same thing. But I would not have you overdo your work. I would not have you make yourself conspicuous by anything like display. There are ill-natured people who will say things that you do not expect, and to which I should be more sensitive than I ought to be. Spare me such pain as this, if you can." He still held her hand as he spoke, and she answered him only by nodding her head. "I will go down with you to Gatherum on Friday." Then he left her.



CHAPTER XIX

Vulgarity

The Duke and Duchess with their children and personal servants reached Gatherum Castle the day before the first crowd of visitors was expected. It was on a lovely autumn afternoon, and the Duke, who had endeavoured to make himself pleasant during the journey, had suggested that as soon as the heat would allow them they would saunter about the grounds and see what was being done. They could dine late, at half-past eight or nine, so that they might be walking from seven to eight. But the Duchess when she reached the Castle declined to fall into this arrangement. The journey had been hot and dusty and she was a little cross. They reached the place about five, and then she declared that she would have a cup of tea and lie down; she was too tired to walk; and the sun, she said, was still scorchingly hot. He then asked that the children might go with him; but the two little girls were weary and travel-worn, and the two boys, the elder of whom was home from Eton and the younger from some minor Eton, were already out about the place after their own pleasures. So the Duke started for his walk alone.

The Duchess certainly did not wish to have to inspect the works in conjunction with her husband. She knew how much there was that she ought still to do herself, how many things that she herself ought to see. But she could neither do anything nor see anything to any purpose under his wing. As to lying down, that she knew to be quite out of the question. She had already found out that the life which she had adopted was one of incessant work. But she was neither weak nor idle. She was quite prepared to work,—if only she might work after her own fashion and with companions chosen by herself. Had not her husband been so perverse, she would have travelled down with Mrs. Finn, whose coming was now postponed for two days, and Locock would have been with her. The Duke had given directions which made it necessary that Locock's coming should be postponed for a day, and this was another grievance. She was put out a good deal, and began to speculate whether her husband was doing it on purpose to torment her. Nevertheless, as soon as she knew that he was out of the way, she went to her work. She could not go out among the tents and lawns and conservatories, as she would probably meet him. But she gave orders as to bedchambers, saw to the adornments of the reception-rooms, had an eye to the banners and martial trophies suspended in the vast hall, and the busts and statues which adorned the corners, looked in on the plate which was being prepared for the great dining-room, and superintended the moving about of chairs, sofas, and tables generally. "You may take it as certain, Mrs. Pritchard," she said to the housekeeper, "that there will never be less than forty for the next two months."

"Forty to sleep, my lady?" To Pritchard the Duchess had for many years been Lady Glencora, and she perhaps understood that her mistress liked the old appellation.

"Yes, forty to sleep, and forty to eat, and forty to drink. But that's nothing. Forty to push through twenty-four hours every day! Do you think you've got everything that you want?"

"It depends, my lady, how long each of 'em stays."

"One night! No,—say two nights on an average."

"That makes shifting the beds very often;—doesn't it, my lady?"

"Send up to Puddick's for sheets to-morrow. Why wasn't that thought of before?"

"It was, my lady,—and I think we shall do. We've got the steam-washery put up."

"Towels!" suggested the Duchess.

"Oh yes, my lady. Puddick's did send a great many things;—a whole waggon load there was come from the station. But the tablecloths ain't, none of 'em, long enough for the big table." The Duchess's face fell. "Of course there must be two. On them very long tables, my lady, there always is two."

"Why didn't you tell me, so that I could have had them made? It's impossible,—impossible that one brain should think of it all. Are you sure you've got enough hands in the kitchen?"

"Well, my lady;—we couldn't do with more; and they ain't an atom of use,—only just in the way,—if you don't know something about 'em. I suppose Mr. Millepois will be down soon." This name, which Mrs. Pritchard called Milleypoise, indicated a French cook who was as yet unknown at the Castle.

"He'll be here to-night."

"I wish he could have been here a day or two sooner, my lady, so as just to see about him."

"And how should we have got our dinner in town? He won't make any difficulties. The confectioner did come?"

"Yes, my lady; and to tell the truth out at once, he was that drunk last night that—; oh, dear, we didn't know what to do with him."

"I don't mind that before the affair begins. I don't suppose he'll get tipsy while he has to work for all these people. You've plenty of eggs?"

These questions went on so rapidly that in addition to the asking of them the Duchess was able to go through all the rooms before she dressed for dinner, and in every room she saw something to speak of, noting either perfection or imperfection. In the meantime the Duke had gone out alone. It was still hot, but he had made up his mind that he would enjoy his first holiday out of town by walking about his own grounds, and he would not allow the heat to interrupt him. He went out through the vast hall, and the huge front door, which was so huge and so grand that it was very seldom used. But it was now open by chance, owing to some incident of this festival time, and he passed through it and stood upon the grand terrace, with the well-known and much-lauded portico over head. Up to the terrace, though it was very high, there ran a road, constructed upon arches, so that grand guests could drive almost into the house. The Duke, who was never grand himself, as he stood there looking at the far-stretching view before him, could not remember that he had ever but once before placed himself on that spot. Of what use had been the portico, and the marbles, and the huge pile of stone,—of what use the enormous hall just behind him, cutting the house in two, declaring aloud by its own aspect and proportions that it had been built altogether for show and in no degree for use or comfort? And now as he stood there he could already see that men were at work about the place, that ground had been moved here, and grass laid down there, and a new gravel road constructed in another place. Was it not possible that his friends should be entertained without all these changes in the gardens? Then he perceived the tents, and descending from the terrace and turning to the left towards the end of the house he came upon a new conservatory. The exotics with which it was to be filled were at this moment being brought in on great barrows. He stood for a moment and looked, but said not a word to the men. They gazed at him but evidently did not know him. How should they know him,—him, who was so seldom there, and who when there never showed himself about the place? Then he went farther afield from the house and came across more and more men. A great ha-ha fence had been made, enclosing on three sides a large flat and turfed parallelogram of ground, taken out of the park and open at one end to the gardens, containing, as he thought, about an acre. "What are you doing this for?" he said to one of the labourers. The man stared at him, and at first seemed hardly inclined to make him an answer. "It be for the quality to shoot their bows and harrows," he said at last, as he continued the easy task of patting with his spade the completed work. He evidently regarded this stranger as an intruder who was not entitled to ask questions, even if he were permitted to wander about the grounds.

From one place he went on to another and found changes, and new erections, and some device for throwing away money everywhere. It angered him to think that there was so little of simplicity left in the world that a man could not entertain his friends without such a fuss as this. His mind applied itself frequently to the consideration of the money, not that he grudged the loss of it, but the spending of it in such a cause. And then perhaps there occurred to him an idea that all this should not have been done without a word of consent from himself. Had she come to him with some scheme for changing everything about the place, making him think that the alterations were a matter of taste or of mere personal pleasure, he would probably have given his assent at once, thinking nothing of the money. But all this was sheer display. Then he walked up and saw the flag waving over the Castle, indicating that he, the Lord Lieutenant of the County, was present there on his own soil. That was right. That was as it should be, because the flag was waving in compliance with an acknowledged ordinance. Of all that properly belonged to his rank and station he could be very proud, and would allow no diminution of that outward respect to which they were entitled. Were they to be trenched on by his fault in his person, the rights of others to their enjoyment would be endangered, and the benefits accruing to his country from established marks of reverence would be imperilled. But here was an assumed and preposterous grandeur that was as much within the reach of some rich swindler or of some prosperous haberdasher as of himself,—having, too, a look of raw newness about it which was very distasteful to him. And then, too, he knew that nothing of all this would have been done unless he had become Prime Minister. Why on earth should a man's grounds be knocked about because he becomes Prime Minister? He walked on arguing this within his own bosom, till he had worked himself almost up to anger. It was clear that he must henceforth take things more into his own hands, or he would be made to be absurd before the world. Indifference he knew he could bear. Harsh criticism he thought he could endure. But to ridicule he was aware that he was pervious. Suppose the papers were to say of him that he built a new conservatory and made an archery ground for the sake of maintaining the Coalition!

When he got back to the house he found his wife alone in the small room in which they intended to dine. After all her labours she was now reclining for the few minutes her husband's absence might allow her, knowing that after dinner there were a score of letters for her to write. "I don't think," said she, "I was ever so tired in my life."

"It isn't such a very long journey after all."

"But it's a very big house, and I've been, I think, into every room since I have been here, and I've moved most of the furniture in the drawing-rooms with my own hand, and I've counted the pounds of butter, and inspected the sheets and tablecloths."

"Was that necessary, Glencora?"

"If I had gone to bed instead, the world, I suppose, would have gone on, and Sir Orlando Drought would still have led the House of Commons;—but things should be looked after, I suppose."

"There are people to do it. You are like Martha, troubling yourself with many things."

"I always felt that Martha was very ill-used. If there were no Marthas there would never be anything fit to eat. But it's odd how sure a wife is to be scolded. If I did nothing at all, that wouldn't please a busy, hard-working man like you."

"I don't know that I have scolded,—not as yet."

"Are you going to begin?"

"Not to scold, my dear. Looking back, can you remember that I ever scolded you?"

"I can remember a great many times when you ought."

"But to tell you the truth, I don't like all that you have done here. I cannot see that it was necessary."

"People make changes in their gardens without necessity sometimes."

"But these changes are made because of your guests. Had they been made to gratify your own taste I would have said nothing,—although even in that case I think you might have told me what you proposed to do."

"What;—when you are so burdened with work that you do not know how to turn?"

"I am never so burdened that I cannot turn to you. But, as you know, that is not what I complain of. If it were done for yourself, though it were the wildest vagary, I would learn to like it. But it distresses me to think that what might have been good enough for our friends before should be thought to be insufficient because of the office I hold. There is a—a—a—I was almost going to say vulgarity about it which distresses me."

"Vulgarity!" she exclaimed, jumping up from her sofa.

"I retract the word. I would not for the world say anything that should annoy you;—but pray, pray do not go on with it." Then again he left her.

Vulgarity! There was no other word in the language so hard to bear as that. He had, indeed, been careful to say that he did not accuse her of vulgarity,—but nevertheless the accusation had been made. Could you call your friend a liar more plainly than by saying to him that you would not say that he lied? They dined together, the two boys, also, dining with them, but very little was said at dinner. The horrid word was clinging to the lady's ears, and the remembrance of having uttered the word was heavy on the man's conscience. He had told himself very plainly that the thing was vulgar, but he had not meant to use the word. When uttered it came even upon himself as a surprise. But it had been uttered; and, let what apology there may be made, a word uttered cannot be retracted. As he looked across the table at his wife, he saw that the word had been taken in deep dudgeon.

She escaped, to the writing of her letters she said, almost before the meal was done. "Vulgarity!" She uttered the word aloud to herself, as she sat herself down in the little room up-stairs which she had assigned to herself for her own use. But though she was very angry with him, she did not, even in her own mind, contradict him. Perhaps it was vulgar. But why shouldn't she be vulgar, if she could most surely get what she wanted by vulgarity? What was the meaning of the word vulgarity? Of course she was prepared to do things,—was daily doing things,—which would have been odious to her had not her husband been a public man. She submitted, without unwillingness, to constant contact with disagreeable people. She lavished her smiles,—so she now said to herself,—on butchers and tinkers. What she said, what she read, what she wrote, what she did, whither she went, to whom she was kind and to whom unkind,—was it not all said and done and arranged with reference to his and her own popularity? When a man wants to be Prime Minister he has to submit to vulgarity, and must give up his ambition if the task be too disagreeable to him. The Duchess thought that that had been understood, at any rate ever since the days of Coriolanus. "The old Duke kept out of it," she said to herself, "and chose to live in the other way. He had his choice. He wants it to be done. And when I do it for him because he can't do it for himself, he calls it by an ugly name!" Then it occurred to her that the world tells lies every day,—telling on the whole much more lies than truth,—but that the world has wisely agreed that the world shall not be accused of lying. One doesn't venture to express open disbelief even of one's wife; and with the world at large a word spoken, whether lie or not, is presumed to be true of course,—because spoken. Jones has said it, and therefore Smith,—who has known the lie to be a lie,—has asserted his assured belief, lying again. But in this way the world is able to live pleasantly. How was she to live pleasantly if her husband accused her of vulgarity? Of course it was all vulgar, but why should he tell her so? She did not do it from any pleasure that she got from it.

The letters remained long unwritten, and then there came a moment in which she resolved that they should not be written. The work was very hard, and what good would come from it? Why should she make her hands dirty, so that even her husband accused her of vulgarity? Would it not be better to give it all up, and be a great woman, une grande dame, of another kind,—difficult of access, sparing of her favours, aristocratic to the backbone,—a very Duchess of duchesses? The role would be one very easy to play. It required rank, money, and a little manner,—and these she possessed. The old Duke had done it with ease, without the slightest trouble to himself, and had been treated almost like a god because he had secluded himself. She could make the change even yet,—and as her husband told her that she was vulgar, she thought she would make it.

But at last, before she had abandoned her desk and paper, there had come to her another thought. Nothing to her was so distasteful as failure. She had known that there would be difficulties, and had assured herself that she would be firm and brave in overcoming them. Was not this accusation of vulgarity simply one of the difficulties which she had to overcome? Was her courage already gone from her? Was she so weak that a single word should knock her over,—and a word evidently repented of as soon as uttered? Vulgar! Well;—let her be vulgar as long as she gained her object. There had been no penalty of everlasting punishment denounced against vulgarity. And then a higher idea touched her, not without effect,—an idea which she could not analyse, but which was hardly on that account the less effective. She did believe thoroughly in her husband, to the extent of thinking him the fittest man in all the country to be its Prime Minister. His fame was dear to her. Her nature was loyal; and though she might, perhaps, in her younger days have been able to lean upon him with a more loving heart had he been other than he was, brighter, more gay, given to pleasures, and fond of trifles, still, she could recognise merits with which her sympathy was imperfect. It was good that he should be England's Prime Minister, and therefore she would do all she could to keep him in that place. The vulgarity was a necessary essential. He might not acknowledge this,—might even, if the choice were left to him, refuse to be Prime Minister on such terms. But she need not, therefore, give way. Having in this way thought it all out, she took up her pen and completed the batch of letters before she allowed herself to go to bed.



CHAPTER XX

Sir Orlando's Policy

When the guests began to arrive our friend the Duchess had apparently got through her little difficulties, for she received them with that open, genial hospitality which is so delightful as coming evidently from the heart. There had not been another word between her and her husband as to the manner in which the thing was to be done, and she had determined that the offensive word should pass altogether out of her memory. The first comer was Mrs. Finn,—who came indeed rather as an assistant hostess than as a mere guest, and to her the Duchess uttered a few half-playful hints as to her troubles. "Considering the time, haven't we done marvels? Because it does look nice,—doesn't it? There are no dirt heaps about, and it's all as green as though it had been there since the Conquest. He doesn't like it because it looks new. And we've got forty-five bedrooms made up. The servants are all turned out over the stables somewhere,—quite comfortable, I assure you. Indeed they like it. And by knocking down the ends of two passages we've brought everything together. And the rooms are all numbered just like an inn. It was the only way. And I keep one book myself, and Locock has another. I have everybody's room, and where it is, and how long the tenant is to be allowed to occupy it. And here's the way everybody is to take everybody down to dinner for the next fortnight. Of course that must be altered, but it is easier when we have a sort of settled basis. And I have some private notes as to who should flirt with whom."

"You'd better not let that lie about."

"Nobody could understand a word of it if they had it. A. B. always means X. Y. Z. And this is the code of the Gatherum Archery Ground. I never drew a bow in my life,—not a real bow in the flesh, that is, my dear,—and yet I've made 'em all out, and had them printed. The way to make a thing go down is to give it some special importance. And I've gone through the bill of fare for the first week with Millepois, who is a perfect gentleman,—perfect." Then she gave a little sigh as she remembered that word from her husband, which had so wounded her. "I used to think that Plantagenet worked hard when he was doing his decimal coinage; but I don't think he ever stuck to it as I have done."

"What does the Duke say to it all?"

"Ah; well, upon the whole he behaves like an angel. He behaves so well that half my time I think I'll shut it all up and have done with it,—for his sake. And then, the other half, I'm determined to go on with it,—also for his sake."

"He has not been displeased?"

"Ask no questions, my dear, and you'll hear no stories. You haven't been married twice without knowing that women can't have everything smooth. He only said one word. It was rather hard to bear, but it has passed away."

That afternoon there was quite a crowd. Among the first comers were Mr. and Mrs. Roby, and Mr. and Mrs. Rattler. And there were Sir Orlando and Lady Drought, Lord Ramsden, and Sir Timothy Beeswax. These gentlemen with their wives represented, for the time, the Ministry of which the Duke was the head, and had been asked in order that their fealty and submission might be thus riveted. There were also there Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, with Lord Thrift and his daughter Angelica, who had belonged to former Ministries,—one on the Liberal and the other on the Conservative side,—and who were now among the Duke's guests, in order that they and others might see how wide the Duke wished to open his hands. And there was our friend Ferdinand Lopez, who had certainly made the best use of his opportunities in securing for himself so great a social advantage as an invitation to Gatherum Castle. How could any father, who was simply a barrister, refuse to receive as his son-in-law a man who had been a guest at the Duke of Omnium's country house? And then there were certain people from the neighbourhood;—Frank Gresham of Greshamsbury, with his wife and daughter, the master of the hounds in those parts, a rich squire of old blood, and head of the family to which one of the aspirant Prime Ministers of the day belonged. And Lord Chiltern, another master of fox hounds, two counties off,—and also an old friend of ours,—had been asked to meet him, and had brought his wife. And there was Lady Rosina De Courcy, an old maid, the sister of the present Earl De Courcy, who lived not far off and had been accustomed to come to Gatherum Castle on state occasions for the last thirty years,—the only relic in those parts of a family which had lived there for many years in great pride of place; for her elder brother, the Earl, was a ruined man, and her younger brothers were living with their wives abroad, and her sisters had married, rather lowly in the world, and her mother now was dead, and Lady Rosina lived alone in a little cottage outside the old park palings, and still held fast within her bosom all the old pride of the De Courcys. And then there were Captain Gunner and Major Pountney, two middle-aged young men, presumably belonging to the army, whom the Duchess had lately enlisted among her followers as being useful in their way. They could eat their dinners without being shy, dance on occasions, though very unwillingly, talk a little, and run on messages;—and they knew the peerage by heart, and could tell the details of every unfortunate marriage for the last twenty years. Each thought himself, especially since this last promotion, to be indispensably necessary to the formation of London society, and was comfortable in a conviction that he had thoroughly succeeded in life by acquiring the privilege of sitting down to dinner three times a week with peers and peeresses.

The list of guests has by no means been made as complete here as it was to be found in the county newspapers, and in the "Morning Post" of the time; but enough of names has been given to show of what nature was the party. "The Duchess has got rather a rough lot to begin with," said the Major to the Captain.

"Oh, yes. I knew that. She wanted me to be useful, so of course I came. I shall stay here this week, and then be back in September." Up to this moment Captain Gunner had not received any invitation for September, but then there was no reason why he should not do so.

"I've been getting up that archery code with her," said Pountney, "and I was pledged to come down and set it going. That little Gresham girl isn't a bad looking thing."

"Rather flabby," said Captain Gunner.

"Very nice colour. She'll have a lot of money, you know."

"There's a brother," said the Captain.

"Oh, yes; there's a brother, who will have the Greshamsbury property, but she's to have her mother's money. There's a very odd story about all that, you know." Then the Major told the story, and told every particular of it wrongly. "A man might do worse than look there," said the Major. A man might have done worse, because Miss Gresham was a very nice girl; but of course the Major was all wrong about the money.

"Well;—now you've tried it, what do you think about it?" This question was put by Sir Timothy to Sir Orlando as they sat in a corner of the archery ground, under the shelter of a tent, looking on while Major Pountney taught Mrs. Boffin how to fix an arrow to her bowstring. It was quite understood that Sir Timothy was inimical to the Coalition though he still belonged to it, and that he would assist in breaking it up if only there were a fair chance of his belonging to the party which would remain in power. Sir Timothy had been badly treated, and did not forget it. Now Sir Orlando had also of late shown some symptoms of a disturbed ambition. He was the Leader of the House of Commons, and it had become an almost recognised law of the Constitution that the Leader of the House of Commons should be the First Minister of the Crown. It was at least understood by many that such was Sir Orlando's reading of the laws of the Constitution.

"We've got along, you know," said Sir Orlando.

"Yes;—yes. We've got along. Can you imagine any possible concatenation of circumstances in which we should not get along? There's always too much good sense in the House for an absolute collapse. But are you contented?"

"I won't say I'm not," said the cautious baronet. "I didn't look for very great things from a Coalition, and I didn't look for very great things from the Duke."

"It seems to me that the one achievement to which we've all looked has been the reaching the end of the Session in safety. We've done that certainly."

"It is a great thing to do, Sir Timothy. Of course the main work of Parliament is to raise supplies;—and, when that has been done with ease, when all the money wanted has been voted without a break-down, of course Ministers are very glad to get rid of the Parliament. It is as much a matter of course that a Minister should dislike Parliament now as that a Stuart King should have done so two hundred and fifty years ago. To get a Session over and done with is an achievement and a delight."

"No Ministry can go on long on that far niente principle, and no minister who accedes to it will remain long in any ministry." Sir Timothy in saying this might be alluding to the Duke, or the reference might be to Sir Orlando himself. "Of course, I'm not in the Cabinet, and am not entitled to say a word; but I think that if I were in the Cabinet, and if I were anxious,—which I confess I'm not,—for a continuation of the present state of things, I should endeavour to obtain from the Duke some idea of his policy for the next Session." Sir Orlando was a man of certain parts. He could speak volubly,—and yet slowly,—so that reporters and others could hear him. He was patient, both in the House and in his office, and had the great gift of doing what he was told by men who understood things better than he did himself. He never went very far astray in his official business, because he always obeyed the clerks and followed precedents. He had been a useful man,—and would still have remained so had he not been lifted a little too high. Had he been only one in the ruck on the Treasury Bench he would have been useful to the end; but special honour and special place had been assigned to him, and therefore he desired still bigger things. The Duke's mediocrity of talent and of energy and of general governing power had been so often mentioned of late in Sir Orlando's hearing, that Sir Orlando had gradually come to think that he was the Duke's equal in the Cabinet, and that perhaps it behoved him to lead the Duke. At the commencement of their joint operations he had held the Duke in some awe, and perhaps something of that feeling in reference to the Duke personally still restrained him. The Dukes of Omnium had always been big people. But still it might be his duty to say a word to the Duke. Sir Orlando assured himself that if ever convinced of the propriety of doing so, he could say a word even to the Duke of Omnium. "I am confident that we should not go on quite as we are at present," said Sir Timothy as he closed the conversation.

"Where did they pick him up?" said the Major to the Captain, pointing with his head to Ferdinand Lopez, who was shooting with Angelica Thrift and Mr. Boffin and one of the Duke's private secretaries.

"The Duchess found him somewhere. He's one of those fabulously rich fellows out of the City who make a hundred thousand pounds at a blow. They say his people were grandees of Spain."

"Does anybody know him?" asked the Major.

"Everybody soon will know him," answered the Captain. "I think I heard that he's going to stand for some place in the Duke's interest. He don't look the sort of fellow I like; but he's got money and he comes here, and he's good looking,—and therefore he'll be a success." In answer to this the Major only grunted. The Major was a year or two older than the Captain, and therefore less willing even than his friend to admit the claims of new comers to social honours.

Just at this moment the Duchess walked across the ground up to the shooters, accompanied by Mrs. Finn and Lady Chiltern. She had not been seen in the gardens before that day, and of course a little concourse was made round her. The Major and the Captain, who had been driven away by the success of Ferdinand Lopez, returned with their sweetest smiles. Mr. Boffin put down his treatise on the nature of Franchises, which he was studying in order that he might lead an opposition against the Ministry next Session, and even Sir Timothy Beeswax, who had done his work with Sir Orlando, joined the throng.