THE PRIME MINISTER (93 page)

‘Doesn’t it, really?’

‘And it comes right in between Lane’s farm and Puddock’s. They’ve always let me have the shooting as a compliment. Not that there’s ever anything in it. It’s only seven
acres. But I like the civility.’

‘Who does it belong to?’

‘It belongs to Benet.’

‘What; Corpus Christi?’

‘Yes, yes; – they’ve changed the name.
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It used to be Benet in my days. Walker says the College would certainly sell, but you’d have to pay for the land and the wood separately. I don’t know that you’d get much out of it; but it’s very unsightly, – on the survey map, I mean.’

‘We’ll buy
it, by all means,’ said Everett, who was already jingling his £60,000 in his pocket.

‘I never had the money, but I think it should be bought’ And Sir Alured rejoiced in the idea that when his ghost should look at the survey map, that hiatus of Barnton Spinnies would not trouble his spectral eyes.

In this way months ran on at Wharton. Our Whartons had come down in the latter half of August, and
at the beginning of September Mr Wharton returned to London. Everett, of course, remained, as he was still learning the lesson of which he was in truth becoming a little weary; and at last Emily had also been persuaded to stay in Herefordshire. Her father promised to return, not mentioning any precise time, but giving her to understand that he would come before the winter. He went, and probably
found that his taste for the Eldon and for whist had returned to him. In the middle of November old Mrs Fletcher arrived. Emily was not aware of what was being done; but, in truth, the Fletchers and Whartons combined were conspiring with the view of bringing her back to her former self. Mrs Fletcher had not yielded without some difficulty, – for it was a part of this conspiracy that Arthur was to
be allowed to marry the widow. But John had prevailed. ‘He’ll do it anyway, mother,’ he had said,
‘whether you and I like it or not. And why on earth shouldn’t he do as he pleases?’

‘Think what the man was, John!’

‘It’s more to the purpose to think what the woman is. Arthur has made up his mind, and, if I know him, he’s not the man to be talked out of it.’ And so the old woman had given in,
and had at last consented to go forward as the advanced guard of the Fletchers, and lay siege to the affections of the woman whom she had once so thoroughly discarded from her heart.

‘My dear,’ she said, when they first met, ‘if there has been anything wrong between you and me, let it be among the things that are past. You always used to kiss me. Give me a kiss now.’ Of course Emily kissed her;
and after that Mrs Fletcher patted her and petted her, and gave her lozenges, which she declared in private to be ‘the sovereignest thing on earth’ for debilitated nerves. And then it came out by degrees that John Fletcher and his wife and all the little Fletchers were coming to Wharton for the Christmas weeks. Everett had gone, but was also to be back for Christmas, and Mr Wharton’s visit was
also postponed. It was absolutely necessary that Everett should be at Wharton for the Christmas festivities, and expedient that Everett’s father should be there to see them. In this way Emily had no means of escape. Her father wrote telling her of his plans, saying that he would bring her back after Christmas. Everett’s heirship had made these Christmas festivities, – which were, however, to be confined
to the two families, – quite a necessity. In all this not a word was said about Arthur, nor did she dare to ask whether he was expected. The younger Mrs Fletcher, John’s wife, opened her arms to the widow in a manner that almost plainly said that she regarded Emily as her future sister-in-law. John Fletcher talked to her about Longbarns, and the children, – complete Fletcher talk, – as though
she were already one of them, never, however, mentioning Arthur’s name. The old lady got down a fresh supply of the lozenges from London because those she had by her might perhaps be a little stale. And then there was another sign which after a while became plain to Emily. No one in either family ever mentioned her name. It was not singular that none of them should call her Mrs Lopez, as she was
Emily to all of them. But they never so described her even in speaking to the servants. And the servants
themselves, as far as was possible, avoided the odious word. The thing was to be buried, if not in oblivion, yet in some speechless grave. And it seemed that her father was joined in this attempt. When writing to her he usually made some excuse for writing also to Everett, or, in Everett’s
absence, to the baronet, – so that the letter for his daughter might be enclosed and addressed simply to ‘Emily’.

She understood it all, and though she was moved to continual solitary tears by this ineffable tenderness, yet she rebelled against them. They should never cheat her back into happiness by such wiles as that! It was not fit that she should yield to them. As a woman utterly disgraced
it could not become her again to laugh and be joyful, to give and take loving embraces, to sit and smile, perhaps a happy mother, at another man’s hearth. For their love she was grateful. For his love she was more than grateful. How constant must be his heart, how grand his nature, how more than manly his strength of character, when he was thus true to her through all the evil she had done! Love
him! Yes; – she would pray for him, worship him, fill the remainder of her days with thinking of him, hoping for him, and making his interests her own. Should he ever be married, – and she would pray that he might, – his wife, if possible, should be her friend, his children should be her darlings; and he should always be her hero. But they should not, with all their schemes, cheat her into disgracing
him by marrying him.

At last her father came, and it was he who told her that Arthur was expected on the day before Christmas. ‘Why did you not tell me before, papa, so that I might have asked you to take me away?’

‘Because I thought, my dear, that it was better that you should be constrained to meet him. You would not wish to live all your life in terror of seeing Arthur Fletcher?’

‘Not all
my life.’

‘Take the plunge and it will be over. They have all been very good to you.’

‘Too good, papa. I didn’t want it.’

‘They are our oldest friends. There isn’t a young man in England I think so highly of as John Fletcher. When I am gone, where are you to look for friends?’

‘I’m not ungrateful, papa.’

‘You can’t know them all, and yet keep yourself altogether separated from Arthur. Think
what it would be to me never to be able to ask him to the house. He is the only one of the family that lives in London, and now it seems that Everett will spend most of his time down here. Of course it is better that you should meet him and have done with it.’ There was no answer to be made to this, but still she was fixed in her resolution that she would never meet him as her lover.

Then came
the morning of the day on which he was to arrive, and his coming was for the first time spoken openly of at breakfast. ‘How is Arthur to be brought from the station?’ asked old Mrs Fletcher.

‘I’m going to take the dog-cart,’ said Everett. ‘Giles will go for the luggage with the pony. He is bringing down a lot of things; – a new saddle, and a gun for me.’ It had all been arranged for her, this
question and answer, and Emily blushed as she felt that it was so.

‘We shall be so glad to see Arthur,’ said young Mrs Fletcher to her.

‘Of course you will.’

‘He has not been down since the Session was over, and he has got to be quite a speaking man now. I do so hope he’ll become something some day.’

‘I’m sure he will,’ said Emily.

‘Not a judge, however. I hate wigs. Perhaps he might be Lord
Chancellor in time.’ Mrs Fletcher was not more ignorant than some other ladies in being unaware of the Lord Chancellor’s wig and exact position.

At last he came. The 9 a.m. express for Hereford, – express, at least, for the first two or three hours out of London, – brought passengers for Wharton to their nearest station at 3 p.m., and the distance was not above five miles. Before four o’clock
Arthur was standing before the drawing-room fire, with a cup of tea in his hand, surrounded by Fletchers and Whartons, and being made much of as the young family member of Parliament. But Emily was not in the room. She had studied her Bradshaw,
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and learned the hours of the trains, and was now in her bedroom. He had looked around the moment he entered the room, but had not dared to ask for her
suddenly. He had said one word about her to Everett in the cart, and that had been all. She was in the house, and he must, at any rate, see her before dinner.

Emily, in order that she might not seem to escape abruptly, had retired early to her solitude. But she, too, knew that the meeting could not be long postponed. She sat thinking of it all, and at last heard the wheels of the vehicle before
the door. She paused, listening with all her ears, that she might recognize his voice, or possibly his footstep. She stood near the window, behind the curtain, with her hand pressed to her heart. She heard Everett’s voice plainly as he gave some direction to the groom, but from Arthur she heard nothing. Yet she was sure that he was come. The very manner of the approach, and her brother’s word made
her certain that there had been no disappointment. She stood thinking for a quarter of an hour, making up her mind how best they might meet. Then suddenly, with slow but certain step, she walked down into the drawing-room.

No one expected her then, or something perhaps might have been done to encourage her coming. It had been thought that she must meet him before dinner, and her absence till
then was to be excused. But now she opened the door, and with much dignity of mien walked into the middle of the room. Arthur at that moment was discussing the Duke’s chance for the next session, and Sir Alured was asking with rapture whether the old Conservative party would not come in. Arthur Fletcher heard the step, turned round, and saw the woman he loved. He went at once to meet her, very quickly,
and put out both his hands. She gave him hers, of course. There was no excuse for her refusal. He stood for an instant pressing them, looking eagerly into her sad face, and then he spoke. ‘God bless you, Emily!’ he said. ‘God bless you!’ He had thought of no words, and at the moment nothing else occurred to him to be said. The colour had covered all his face, and his heart beat so strongly that
he was hardly his own master. She let him hold her two hands, perhaps for a minute, and then, bursting into tears, tore herself from him, and, hurrying out of the room, made her way again into her own chamber. ‘It will be better so,’ said old Mrs Fletcher. ‘It will be better so. Do not let anyone follow her.’

On that day John Fletcher took her out to dinner, and Arthur did not sit near her. In
the evening he came to her as she was working close to his mother, and seated himself on a low chair close to her knees. ‘We are all so glad to see you; are we not, mother?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs Fletcher. Then, after a while, the old
woman got up to make a rubber at whist with the two old men and her eldest son, leaving Arthur sitting at the widow’s knee. She would willingly have escaped,
but it was impossible that she should move.

‘You need not be afraid of me,’ he said, not whispering, but in a voice which no one else could hear. ‘Do not seem to avoid me, and I will say nothing to trouble you. I think that you must wish that we should be friends.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Come out, then, to-morrow, when we are walking. In that way we shall get used to each other. You are troubled now, and
I will go.’ Then he left her, and she felt herself to be bound to him by infinite gratitude.

A week went on and she had become used to his company. A week passed and he had spoken no word to her that a brother might not have spoken. They had walked together when no one else had been within hearing, and yet he had spared her. She had begun to think that he would spare her altogether, and she was
certainly grateful. Might it not be that she had misunderstood him, and had misunderstood the meaning of them all? Might it not be that she had troubled herself with false anticipations? Surely it was so; for how could it be that such a man should wish to make such a woman his wife?

‘Well, Arthur?’ said his brother to him one day.

‘I have nothing to say about it,’ said Arthur.

‘You haven’t
changed your mind?’

‘Never! Upon my word, to me, in that dress, she is more beautiful than ever.’

‘I wish you would make her take it off.’

‘I dare not ask her yet.’

‘You know what they say about widows generally, my boy.’

‘That is all very well when one talks about widows in general. It is easy to chaff about women when one hasn’t got any woman in one’s mind. But as it is now, having her
here, loving her as I do, – by Heaven! I cannot hurry her. I don’t dare to speak to her after that fashion. I shall do it in time, I suppose; – but I must wait till the time comes.’

It came at last to be decided among them that when old Mr Wharton returned to town, – and he had now been at Wharton longer than he had ever been known to remain there before, – Emily should still remain in Herefordshire, and that at some period not then fixed she should go for a month to Longbarns. There were various reasons which induced her to consent
to this change of plans. In the first place she found herself to be infinitely more comfortable in the country than in town. She could go out and move about and bestir herself, whereas in Manchester Square she could only sit and mope at home. Her father had assured her that he thought that it would be better that she should be away from the reminiscences of the house in town. And then when the first
week of February was past Arthur would be up in town, and she would be far away from him at Longbarns, whereas in London she would be close within his reach. Many little schemes were laid and struggles made both by herself and the others before at last their plans were settled. Mr Wharton was to return to London in the middle of January. It was quite impossible that he could remain longer away
either from Stone Buildings or from the Eldon, and then at the same time, or a day or two following, Mrs Fletcher was to go back to Longbarns. John Fletcher and his wife and children were already gone, – and Arthur also had been at Longbarns. The two brothers and Everett had been backwards and forwards. Emily was anxious to remain at Wharton at any rate till Parliament should have met, so that she
might not be at home with Arthur in his own house. But matters would not arrange themselves exactly as she wished. It was at last settled that she should go to Longbarns with Mary Wharton under the charge of John Fletcher in the first week in February. As arrangements were already in progress for the purchase of Barnton Spinnies, Sir Alured could not possibly leave his own house. Not to have walked
through the wood on the first day that it became a part of the Wharton property would to him have been treason to the estate. His
experience ought to have told him that there was no chance of a lawyer and a college dealing together with such rapidity; but in the present state of things he could not bear to absent himself. Orders had already been given for the cutting down of certain trees which
could not have been touched had the reprobate lived, and it was indispensable that if a tree fell at Wharton he should see the fall. It thus came to pass that there was a week during which Emily would be forced to live under the roof of the Fletchers together with Arthur Fletcher.