She was there at the time named and found him standing by the hall door, waiting for her. His hat was already on his head and his back was almost turned to her. He opened the door, and, allowing her to pass out first, led the way to the shrubbery. He did not speak to her till he had closed behind her the little iron gate which separated the walk from the garden, and then he turned upon her with one word. “Well?” he said. She was silent for a moment, and then he repeated his eager question: “Well;—well?”
“I should disgrace you,” she said, not firmly as before, but whispering the words.
He waited for no other assent. The form of the words told him that he had won the day. In a moment his arms were round her, and her veil was off, and his lips were pressed to hers;—and when she could see his countenance the whole form of his face was altered to her. It was bright as it used to be bright in old days, and he was smiling on her as he used to smile. “My own,” he said;—“my wife—my own!” And she had no longer the power to deny him. “Not yet, Arthur; not yet,” was all that she could say.
LXXX
The Last Meeting at Matching
The ex-Prime Minister did not carry out his purpose of leaving London in the middle of the season and travelling either to Italy or Norway. He was away from London at Whitsuntide longer perhaps than he might have been if still in office, and during this period regarded himself as a man from whose hands all work had been taken—as one who had been found unfit to carry any longer a burden serviceably; but before June was over he and the Duchess were back in London, and gradually he allowed himself to open his mouth on this or that subject in the House of Lords—not pitching into everybody all round, as his wife had recommended, but expressing an opinion now and again, generally in support of his friends, with the dignity which should belong to a retired Prime Minister. The Duchess too recovered much of her good temper—as far at least as the outward show went. One or two who knew her, especially Mrs. Finn, were aware that her hatred and her ideas of revenge were not laid aside; but she went on from day to day anathematizing her special enemies and abstained from reproaching her husband for his pusillanimity. Then came the question as to the autumn. “Let’s have everybody down at Gatherum, just as we had before,” said the Duchess.
The proposition almost took away the Duke’s breath. “Why do you want a crowd, like that?”
“Just to show them that we are not beaten because we are turned out.”
“But, inasmuch as we were turned out, we were beaten. And what has a gathering of people at my private house to do with a political manoeuvre? Do you especially want to go to Gatherum?”
“I hate the place. You know I do.”
“Then why should you propose to go there?” He hardly yet knew his wife well enough to understand that the suggestion had been a joke. “If you don’t wish to go abroad—”
“I hate going abroad.”
“Then we’ll remain at Matching. You don’t hate Matching.”
“Ah dear! There are memories there too. But you like it.”
“My books are there.”
“Blue-books,” said the Duchess.
“And there is plenty of room if you wish to have friends.”
“I suppose we must have somebody. You can’t live without your Mentor.”
“You can ask whom you please,” he said almost fretfully.
“Lady Rosina, of course,” suggested the Duchess. Then he turned to the papers before him and wouldn’t say another word. The matter ended in a party much as usual being collected at Matching about the middle of October—Telemachus having spent the early part of the autumn with Mentor at Long Royston. There might perhaps be a dozen guests in the house, and among them of course were Phineas Finn and his wife. And Mr. Grey was there, having come back from his eastern mission—whose unfortunate abandonment of his seat at Silverbridge had caused so many troubles—and Mrs. Grey, who in days now long passed had been almost as necessary to Lady Glencora as was now her later friend Mrs. Finn—and the Cantrips, and for a short time the St. Bungays. But Lady Rosina De Courcy on this occasion was not present. There were few there whom my patient readers have not seen at Matching before; but among those few was Arthur Fletcher.
“So it is to be,” said the Duchess to the member for Silverbridge one morning. She had by this time become intimate with “her member,” as she would sometimes call him in joke, and had concerned herself much as to his matrimonial prospects.
“Yes, Duchess; it is to be—unless some unforeseen circumstance should arise.”
“What circumstance?”
“Ladies and gentlemen sometimes do change their minds;—but in this case I do not think it likely.”
“And why ain’t you being married now, Mr. Fletcher?”
“We have agreed to postpone it till next year;—so that we may be quite sure of our own minds.”
“I know you are laughing at me; but nevertheless I am very glad that it
