The Prime Minister

and had submitted to hear her father describe him as infamous. Her life had been one long misery, under which she had seemed gradually to be perishing. Now she was relieved, and her health was reestablished. A certain amount of unjoyous cheerfulness was returning to her. It was impossible to doubt that she must have known that a great burden had fallen from her back. And yet she would never allow his name to be mentioned without giving some outward sign of affection for his memory. If he was bad, so were others bad. There were many worse than he. Such were the excuses she made for her late husband. Old Mr. Wharton, who really thought that in all his experience he had never known anyone worse than his son-in-law, would sometimes become testy, and at last resolved that he would altogether hold his tongue. But he could hardly hold his tongue now.

He, no doubt, had already formed his hopes in regard to Arthur Fletcher. He had trusted that the man whom he had taught himself some years since to regard as his wished-for son-in-law, might be constant and strong enough in his love to forget all that was past, and to be still willing to redeem his daughter from misery. But as days had crept on since the scene at the Tenway Junction, he had become aware that time must do much before such relief would be accepted. It was, however, still possible that the presence of the man might do something. Hitherto, since the deed had been done, no stranger had dined in Manchester Square. She herself had seen no visitor. She had hardly left the house except to go to church, and then had been enveloped in the deepest crape. Once or twice she had allowed herself to be driven out in a carriage, and, when she had done so, her father had always accompanied her. No widow, since the seclusion of widows was first ordained, had been more strict in maintaining the restraints of widowhood as enjoined. How then could he bid her receive a new lover⁠—or how suggest to her that a lover was possible? And yet he did not like to answer Arthur Fletcher without naming some period for the present mourning⁠—some time at which he might at least show himself in Manchester Square.

“I have had a letter from Arthur Fletcher,” he said to his daughter a day or two after he had received it. He was sitting after dinner, and Everett was also in the room.

“Is he in Herefordshire?” she asked.

“No;⁠—he is up in town, attending to the House of Commons, I suppose. He had something to say to me, and as we are not in the way of meeting he wrote. He wants to come and see you.”

“Not yet, papa.”

“He talked of coming and dining here.”

“Oh yes; pray let him come.”

“You would not mind that?”

“I would dine early and be out of the way. I should be so glad if you would have somebody sometimes. I shouldn’t think then that I was such a⁠—such a restraint to you.”

But this was not what Mr. Wharton desired. “I shouldn’t like that, my dear. Of course he would know that you were in the house.”

“Upon my word, I think you might meet an old friend like that,” said Everett.

She looked at her brother, and then at her father, and burst into tears. “Of course you shall not be pressed if it would be irksome to you,” said her father.

“It is the first plunge that hurts,” said Everett. “If you could once bring yourself to do it, you would find afterwards that you were more comfortable.”

“Papa,” she said slowly, “I know what it means. His goodness I shall always remember. You may tell him I say so. But I cannot meet him yet.” Then they pressed her no further. Of course she had understood. Her father could not even ask her to say a word which might give comfort to Arthur as to some long distant time.

He went down to the House of Commons the next day, and saw his young friend there. Then they walked up and down Westminster Hall for nearly an hour, talking over the matter with the most absolute freedom. “It cannot be for the benefit of anyone,” said Arthur Fletcher, “that she should immolate herself like an Indian widow⁠—and for the sake of such a man as that! Of course I have no right to dictate to you⁠—hardly, perhaps, to give an opinion.”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“It does seem to me, then, that you ought to force her out of that kind of thing. Why should she not go down to Herefordshire?”

“In time, Arthur⁠—in time.”

“But people’s lives are running away.”

“My dear fellow, if you were to see her you would know how vain it would be to try to hurry her. There must be time.”

LXVI

The End of the Session

The Duke of St. Bungay had been very much disappointed. He had contradicted with a repetition of noes the assertion of the Duchess that he had been the Warwick who had placed the Prime Minister’s crown on the head of the Duke of Omnium, but no doubt he felt in his heart that he had done so much towards it that his advice respecting the vacant Garter, when given with so much weight, should have been followed. He was an old man, and had known the secrets of Cabinet Councils when his younger friend was a little boy. He had given advice to Lord John, and had been one of the first to congratulate Sir Robert Peel when that statesman became a free-trader. He had sat in conclave with the Duke, and had listened to the bold Liberalism of old Earl Grey, both in the Lower and the Upper House. He had been always great in council, never giving his advice unasked, nor throwing his pearls before swine, and cautious at all times to avoid excesses on this side