Had the heavens fallen and mixed themselves with the earth, had the people of London risen in rebellion with French ideas of equality, had the Queen persistently declined to comply with the constitutional advice of her ministers, had a majority in the House of Commons lost its influence in the country,—­the utter prostration of the bereft husband could not have been more complete.  It was not only that his heart was torn to pieces, but that he did not know how to look out into the world.  It was as though a man should be suddenly called upon to live without hands or even arms.  He was helpless, and knew himself to be helpless.  Hitherto he had never specially acknowledged to himself that his wife was necessary to him as a component part of his life.  Though he had loved her dearly, and had in all things consulted her welfare and happiness, he had at times been inclined to think that in the exuberance of her spirits she had been a trouble rather than a support to him.  But now it was as though all outside appliances were taken away from him.  There was no one of whom he could ask a question.

For it may be said of this man that, though throughout his life he had had many Honourable and Right Honourable friends, and that, though he had entertained guests by the score, and though he had achieved for himself the respect of all good men and the thorough admiration of some few who knew him, he had hardly made for himself a single intimate friend—­except that one who had now passed away from him.  To her he had been able to say what he thought, even though she would occasionally ridicule him while he was declaring his feelings.  But there had been no other human soul to whom he could open himself.  There was one or two whom he loved, and perhaps liked; but his loving and his liking had been exclusively political.  He had so habituated himself to devote his mind and his heart to the service of his country, that he had almost risen above or sunk below humanity.  But she, who had been essentially human, had been a link between him and the world.

There were his three children, the youngest of whom was now nearly nineteen, and they surely were links!  At the first moment of his bereavement they were felt to be hardly more than burdens.  A more loving father there was not in England, but nature had made him so undemonstrative that as yet they had hardly known his love.  In all their joys and in all their troubles, in all their desires and all their disappointments, they had ever gone to their mother.  She had been conversant with everything about them, from the boys’ bills and the girl’s gloves to the innermost turn in their heart and the disposition of each.  She had known with the utmost accuracy the nature of the scrapes into which Lord Silverbridge had precipitated himself, and had known also how probable it was that Lord Gerald would do the same.  The results of such scrapes she, of course, deplored; and therefore she would give good counsel, pointing out how imperative it was that such evil-doings should be avoided; but with the spirit that produced the scrapes she fully sympathized.  The father disliked the spirit almost worse than the results; and was therefore often irritated and unhappy.