The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollope (page 13)

Then there came a letter, or rather two letters from Mary Wharton;–one to Mr Wharton and the other to Emily. To tell the truth as to these letters, they contained the combined wisdom and tenderness of Wharton Hall and Longbarns. As soon as the fate of Lopez had been ascertained and thoroughly discussed in Hertfordshire, there went forth an edict that Emily had suffered punishment sufficient and was to be forgiven. Old Mrs Fletcher did not come to this at once,–having some deep-seated feeling which she did not dare to express even to her son, though she muttered it to her daughter-in-law, that Arthur would be disgraced for ever if he were to marry the widow of such a man as Ferdinand Lopez. But when this question of receiving Emily back into family favour was mooted in the Longbarns Parliament no one alluded to the possibility of such a marriage. There was the fact that she whom they all had loved had been freed by a great tragedy from the husband whom they all had condemned,–and also the knowledge that the poor victim had suffered greatly during the period of her married life. Mrs Fletcher had frowned, and shaken her head, and made a little speech about the duties of women, and the necessarily fatal consequences when those duties are neglected. There were present there, with the old lady, John Fletcher and his wife, Sir Alured and Lady Wharton, and Mary Wharton. Arthur was not in the county, nor could the discussion have been held in his presence. ‘I can only say,’ said John, getting up and looking away from his mother, ‘that she shall always find a home at Longbarns when she chooses to come here, and I hope Sir Alured will say the same as to Wharton Hall.’ After all, John Fletcher was king in these parts, and Mrs Fletcher, with many noddings and some sobbing, had to give way to King John. The end of all this was that Mary Wharton wrote her letters. In that to Mr Wharton she asked whether it would not be better that her cousin should change the scene and come at once into the country. Let her come and stay a month at Wharton, then go onto Longbarns. She might be sure that there would be no company at either house. In June the Fletchers would go to town for a week, and then Emily might return to Wharton Hall. It was a long letter, and Mary gave many reasons why the poor sufferer would be better in the country than in town. The letter to Emily herself was shorter, but full of affection. ‘Do, do do come. You know how we all love you. Let it be as it used to be. You always liked the country. I will devote myself to try and comfort you.’ But Emily could not as yet submit to receive devotion even from her cousin Mary. Through it all, and under it all,–though she would ever defend her husband because he was dead,–she knew that she had disgraced the Whartons and brought a load of sorrow upon the Fletchers, and she was too proud to be forgiven so quickly.

Then she received another tender of affection from a quarter whence she certainly did not expect it. The Duchess of Omnium wrote to her. The Duchess, though she had lately been considerably restrained by the condition of the Duke’s mind, and by the effects of her own political and social mistakes, still from time to time made renewed efforts to keep together the Coalition by giving dinners, balls, and garden parties, and by binding to herself the gratitude and worship of young parliamentary aspirants. In carrying out her plans, she had lately showered her courtesies upon Arthur Fletcher, who had been made welcome even by the Duke as the sitting member for Silverbridge. With Arthur she had of course discussed the conduct of Lopez as to the election bills, and had been very loud in condemning him. And from Arthur also she had heard something of the sorrows of Emily Lopez. Arthur had been very desirous that the Duchess, who had received them both at her house, should distinguish between the husband and the wife. Then had come the tragedy, to which the notoriety of the man’s conduct of course gave additional interest. It was believed that Lopez had destroyed himself because of the disgrace which had fallen upon him from the Silverbridge affair. And for much of that Silverbridge affair the Duchess herself was responsible. She waited till a couple of months had gone by, and then, in the beginning of May, sent to the widow what was intended to be, and indeed was, a very kind note. The Duchess had heard the sad story with the greatest grief. She hoped that Mrs Lopez would permit her to avail herself of a short acquaintance to express her sincere sympathy. She would not venture to call as yet, but hoped that before long she might be allowed to come to Manchester Square.

This note touched the poor woman to whom it was written, not because she herself was solicitous to be acquainted with the Duchess of Omnium, but because the application seemed to her to contain something like an acquittal, or at any rate a pardon, of her husband. His sin in that measure of the Silverbridge election,–a sin which her father had been loud in denouncing before the wretch had destroyed himself,–had been specially against the Duke of Omnium. And now the Duchess came forward to say that it should be forgiven and forgotten. When she showed the letter to her father, and asked him what she should say in answer to it, he only shook his head. ‘It is meant for kindness, papa.’

‘Yes;–I think it is. There are people who have no right to be kind to me. If a man stopped me in the street and offered me a half-a-crown it might be kindness,–but I don’t want the man’s half–crown.’

‘I don’t think it is the same, papa. There is a reason here.’

‘Perhaps so, my dear, but I do not see the reason.’

She became very red, but even to him she would not explain her ideas. ‘I think I shall answer it.’

‘Certainly answer it. Your compliments to the Duchess and thank her for her kind inquiries.’

‘But she says she will come here.’

‘I should not notice that.’

‘Very well, papa. If you think so, of course I will not. Perhaps it would be an inconvenience, if she were really to come.’ On the next day she did write a note, not quite so cold as that which her father proposed, but still saying nothing as to the offered visit. She felt, she said, very grateful for the Duchess’s kind remembrance of her. The Duchess would perhaps understand that at present her sorrow overwhelmed her.

And there was one other tender of kindness which was more surprising than even that from the Duchess. The reader may perhaps remember that Ferdinand Lopez and Lady Eustace had not parted when they last saw each other on the pleasantest terms. He had been very affectionate; but when he had proposed to devote his whole life to her and to carry her off to Guatemala she had simply told him that he was–a fool. Then he had escaped from her house and had never again seen Lizzie Eustace. She had not thought very much about it. Had he returned to her the next day with some more tempting proposition for making money she would have listened to him,–and had he begged her pardon for what had taken place on the former day she would have merely laughed. She was not more offended than she would have been had he asked her for half her fortune instead of her person and her honour. But, as it was, he had escaped and had never again shown himself in the little street near May Fair. Then she had the tidings of his death, first seeing the account in a very sensational article from the pen of Mr Quintus Slide himself. She was immediately filled with an intense interest which was infinitely increased by the fact that the man had but a few days before declared himself to be her lover. It was bringing her almost as near the event as though she had seen it! She was, perhaps, entitled to think that she had caused it! Nay;–in one sense she had caused it, for he certainly would not have destroyed himself had she consented to go with him to Guatemala or elsewhere. And she knew his wife. An uninteresting, dowdy creature she had called her. But, nevertheless, they had been in company together more than once. So she presented her compliments, and expressed her sorrow, and hoped that she might be allowed to call. There had been no one for whom she had felt more sincere respect and esteem than for her late friend Mr Ferdinand Lopez. To this note there was an answer written by Mr Wharton himself.

MADAM,
My daughter is too ill to see even her own friends. I am, Madam,
Your obedient servant
ABEL WHARTON

After this, life went on in a very quiet way at Manchester Square for many weeks. Gradually Mrs Lopez recovered her capability of attending to the duties of life. Gradually she became again able to interest herself in her brother’s pursuits and in her father’s comforts, and the house returned to its old form as it had been before these terrible two years, in which the happiness of the Wharton and Fletcher families had been marred, and scotched, and almost destroyed for ever by the interference of Ferdinand Lopez. But Mrs Lopez never for a moment forgot that she had done the mischief,–and that the black enduring cloud had been created solely by her own perversity and self-will. Though she would still defend her late husband if any attack were made upon his memory, not the less did she feel that hers had been the fault, though the punishment had come upon them all.

CHAPTER 62

PHINEAS FINN HAS A BOOK TO READ.

The sensation created by the man’s death was by no means confined to Manchester Square, but was very general in the metropolis, and, indeed, throughout the country. As the catastrophe became the subject of general conversation, may people learned that the Silverbridge affair had not, in truth, had much to do with it. The man had killed himself, as many other men have done before him, because he had run through his money and had no chance left of redeeming himself. But to the world at large, the disgrace brought upon him by the explanation given in Parliament was the apparent cause of his self-immolation, and there were not wanting those who felt and expressed a sympathy for a man who could feel so acutely the affect of his own wrong-doing. No doubt he had done wrong in asking the Duke for the money. But the request, though wrong, might almost be justified. There could be no doubt, these apologists said, that he had been ill-treated between the Duke and Duchess. No doubt Phineas Finn, who was now described by some opponents as the Duke’s creature, had been able to make out a story in the Duke’s favour. But all the world knew what was the worth and what was the truth of ministerial explanations! The Coalition was very strong; and even the question in the House, which should have been hostile, had been asked in a friendly spirit. In this way there came to be a party who spoke and wrote of Ferdinand Lopez as though he had been a martyr.

Of course Mr Quintus Slide was in the front rank of these accusers. He may be said to have led the army which made this matter a pretext for a special attack on the Ministry. Mr Slide was especially hostile to the Prime Minister, but he was not less hotly the enemy of Phineas Finn. Against Phineas Finn he had old grudges, which, however, age had never cooled. He could, therefore, write with a most powerful pen when discussing the death of the unfortunate man, the late candidate for Silverbridge, crushing his two foes in the single grasp of his journalistic fist. Phineas had certainly said some hard things against Lopez, though he had not mentioned the man’s name. He had congratulated the House that it had not been contaminated by the presence of so base a creature, and he had said that he would not pause to stigmatize the meanness of the application for money which Lopez had made. Had Lopez continued to live and to endure the ‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’, no one would have ventured to say that these words would have inflicted too severe a punishment. But death wipes out many faults, and a self- inflicted death caused by remorse, will, in the minds of many, wash a blackamoor almost white. Thus it came to pass that some heavy weapons were hurled at Phineas Finn, but none so heavy as those hurled by Quintus Slide. Should not this Irish knight, who was so ready with his lance in the defence of the Prime Minister, asked Mr Slide, have remembered past events of his own rather peculiar life? Had not he, too, been poor, and driven in his poverty to rather questionable straits? Had he not been abject in his petition for office,–and in what degree were such petitions less disgraceful than a request for money which had been hopelessly expended on an impossible object, attempted at the instance of the great Croesus who, when asked to pay it, had at once acknowledged the necessity of doing so? Could not Mr Finn remember that he himself had stood in danger of his life before a British jury, and that, though he had been, no doubt properly, acquitted of the crime imputed to him, circumstances had come out against him during the trial which, if not as criminal, were at any rate almost as disgraceful? Could he not have had some mercy on a broken political adventurer who, in his aspirations for public life, had shown none of that greed by which Mr Phineas Finn had been characterized in all the relations of life. As for the Prime Minister, ‘We,’ as Mr Quintus Slide always described himself,–‘We do not wish to add to the agony which the fate of Mr Lopez must have brought upon him. He has hounded that poor man to his death in revenge for the trifling sum of money which he was called upon to pay for him. It may be that the first blame lay not with the Prime Minister himself, but with the Prime Minister’s wife. With that we have nothing to do. The whole thing lies in a nutshell. The bare mention of the name of her Grace the Duchess in Parliament would have saved the Duke, at any rate as effectually as he had been saved by his man-of- all-work, Phineas Finn, and would have saved him without driving poor Ferdinand Lopez to insanity. But rather than do this he allowed his servant to make statements about mysterious agents, which we are justified in stigmatizing as untrue, and to throw the whole blame where but the least of the blame was due. We all know the result. It was found in those gory shreds and tatters of a poor human being with which the Tenway Railway Station was bespattered.’

Of course such an article had considerable effect. It was apparent at once that there was ample room for an action of libel against the newspaper on the part of Phineas Finn if not on that of the Duke. But it was equally apparent that Mr Quintus Slide must have been very well aware of this when he wrote the article. Such an action, even if successful, may bring with it to the man punished more of good than evil. Any pecuniary penalty might be more than recouped by the largeness of advertisement which such an action would produce. Mr Slide no doubt calculated that he would carry with him a great body of public feeling by the mere fact that he had attacked a Prime Minister and a Duke. If he could only get all the publicans in London to take his paper because of his patriotic and bold conduct, the fortune of the paper would be made. There is no better trade than that of martyrdom, if the would-be martyr knows how far he may judiciously go, and in what direction. All this Mr Quintus Slide was supposed to have considered very well.

And Mr Phineas Finn knew that his enemy had also considered the nature of the matters which he would have been able to drag into court if there should be a trial. Allusions, very strong allusions, had been made to former periods of Mr Finn’s life. And though there was but little, if anything, in the past circumstances of which he was ashamed,–but little, if anything, which he thought would subject him personally to the odium of good men, could they be made accurately known in all their details,–it would, he was well aware, be impossible that such accuracy should be achieved. And the story if told inaccurately would not suit him. And then, there was a reason against any public proceeding much stronger even than this. Whether the telling of the story would or would not suit him, it certainly would not suit others. As has been before remarked, there are former chronicles respecting Phineas Finn, and in them may be found adequate cause for this conviction on his part. To no outsider was this history known better than to Mr Quintus Slide, and therefore Mr Quintus Slide could dare almost to defy the law.

But not the less on this account were there many who told Phineas that he ought to bring the action. Among these none were more eager than his old friend Lord Chiltern, the Master of the Brake hounds, a man who really loved Phineas, who also loved the abstract idea of justice, and who could not endure the thought that a miscreant should go unpunished. Hunting was over for the season in the Brake country, and Lord Chiltern rushed up to London, having this object among others of a very pressing nature on his mind. His saddler had to be seen,–and threatened,–on a certain matter touching the horses’ backs. A draught of hounds were being sent down to a friend in Scotland. And there was a Committee of Masters to sit on the moot question concerning a neutral covert in the XXX country, of which Committed he was one. But the desire to punish Slide was almost as strong in his indignant mind as those other matters referring more especially to the profession of his life. ‘Phineas,’ he said, ‘you are bound to do it. If you will allow a fellow like that to say such things of you, by heaven, any man may say anything of anybody.’

Now Phineas could hardly explain to Lord Chiltern his objection to the proposed action. A lady was closely concerned, and that lady was Lord Chiltern’s sister. ‘I certainly shall not,’ said Phineas.

‘And why?’

‘Just because he wishes me to do it. I should be falling into the little pit he has dug for me.’

‘He couldn’t hurt you. What have you to be afraid of? Ruat coelum.’

‘There are certain angels, Chiltern, living up in that heaven which you wish me to pull about our ears, as to whom, if all their heart and all their wishes and all their doings could be known, nothing but praise could be spoken; but who would still be dragged with soiled wings through the dirt if this man were empowered to bring witness after witness into court. My wife would be named. For aught I know your wife.’

‘By G-, he’d find himself wrong there.’

‘Leave a chimney-sweep alone when you see him, Chiltern. Should he run against you, then remember that it is one of the necessary penalties of clean linen that it is apt to be soiled.’

‘I’m d-d if I’d let him off.’

‘Yes you would, old fellow. When you come to see clearly what you would gain and what you would lose, you would not meddle with him.’

His wife was at first inclined to think an action should be taken, but she was more easily convinced than Lord Chiltern. ‘I had not thought,’ she said, ‘of poor Lady Laura. But is it not horrible that a man should be able to go on like that, and that there should be no punishment?’ in answer to this he only shrugged his shoulders.

But the greatest pressure came upon him from another source. He did not in truth suffer much himself from what was said in the “People’s Banner”. He had become used to the “People’s Banner”, and had found out that in no relation of life was he less pleasantly situated because of the maledictions heaped upon him in the columns of that newspaper. His position in public life did not seem to be weakened by them. His personal friends did not fall off because of them. Those who loved him did not love him less. It had not been so with him always, but now, at last, he was hardened against Mr Quintus Slide. But the poor Duke was by no means equally strong. This attack upon him, this denunciation of his cruelty, this assurance that he had caused the death of Ferdinand Lopez, was very grievous to him. It was not that he really felt himself to be guilty of the man’s blood, but that anyone should say he was guilty. It was of no use to point out to him that other newspapers had sufficiently vindicated his conduct in that respect, that it was already publicly known that Lopez had received payment for those election expenses from Mr Wharton before the application had been made to him, and that therefore the man’s dishonesty was patent to all the world. It was equally futile to explain to him that the man’s last act had been in no degree caused by what had been said in Parliament, but had been the result of continued failures in life and the final absolute ruin. He fretted and fumed and was very wretched,–and at last expressed his opinion that legal steps should be taken to punish the “People’s Banner”. Now it had already been acknowledged, on the dictum of no less a man than Sir Gregory Grogram, the Attorney-General, that the action for libel, if taken at all, must be taken, not on the part of the Prime Minister, but on that of Phineas Finn. Sir Timothy Beeswax had indeed doubted, but it had come to be understood by all the members of the Coalition that Sir Timothy Beeswax always did doubt whatever was said by Sir Gregory Grogram. ‘The Duke thinks that something should be done,’ said Mr Warburton, the Duke’s private Secretary, to Phineas Finn.

‘Not by me, I hope,’ said Phineas Finn.

‘Nobody else can do it. That is to say it must be done in your name. Of course it would be a Government matter, as far as the expense goes, and all that.’

‘I am sorry the Duke should think so.’

‘I don’t see that it could hurt you.’

‘I am sorry the Duke should think so,’ repeated Phineas,– ‘because nothing can be done in my name. I have made up my mind about it. I think the Duke is wrong in wishing it, and I believe that were any action taken, we should only be playing into the hands of that wretched fellow, Quintus Slide. I have long been conversant with Mr Quintus Slide, and have quite made up my mind that I will never play upon his pipe. And you may tell the Duke that there are other reasons. The man referred to my past life, and in seeking to justify those remarks he would be enabled to drag before the public circumstances and stories, and perhaps persons, in a manner that I personally should disregard, but which, for the sake of others, I am bound to prevent it. You will explain all this to the Duke?’

‘I am afraid you will find the Duke very urgent.’

‘I must express my great sorrow that I cannot oblige the Duke. I trust I need hardly say that the Duke has no colleague more devoted to his interest than I am. Were he to wish me to change my office, or to abandon it, or to undertake any political duty within the compass of my small powers, he would find me ready to obey his behest. But in this matter others are concerned, and I cannot make my judgement subordinate to his.’ The private Secretary looked very serious, and simply said that he would do his best to explain these objections to his Grace.

That the Duke would take his refusal in bad part Phineas felt nearly certain. He had been a little surprised at the coldness of the Minister’s manner to him after the statement he had made in the House, and had mentioned the matter to his wife. ‘You hardly know him,’ she had said, ‘as well as I do.’

‘Certainly not. You ought to know him very intimately, and I have had but little personal friendship with him. But it was a moment in which the man might, for the moment, been cordial.’

‘It was not a moment for his cordiality. The Duchess says that if you want to get a really genial smile from him you must talk to him about cork soles. I know exactly what she means. He loves to be simple, but he does not know how to show people that he likes it. Lady Rosina found him out by accident.’

‘Don’t suppose that I am in the least aggrieved,’ he had said. And now he spoke again to his wife in the same spirit. ‘Warburton clearly thinks he will be offended, and Warburton, I suppose, knows his mind.’

‘I don’t see why he should. I have been reading it longer, and I still find it very difficult. Lady Glen has been at work for the last fifteen years, and sometimes owns that there are passages she has not mastered yet. I fancy Mr Warburton is afraid of him, and is a little given to fancy that everybody should bow down to him. Now if there is anything certain about the Duke it is this, –that he doesn’t want anyone to bow down to him. He hates all bowing down.

‘I don’t think he loves those who oppose him.’

‘It is not the opposition he hates, but the cause in the man’s mind which may produce it. When Sir Orlando opposed him, and he thought that Sir Orlando’s opposition was founded on jealousy, then he despised Sir Orlando. But had he believed in Sir Orlando’s belief in the new ships, he would have been capable of pressing Sir Orlando to his bosom, although he might have been forced to oppose Sir Orlando’s ships in the Cabinet.’

‘He is a Sir Bayard to you,’ said Phineas, laughing.

‘Rather a Don Quixote, whom I take to have been the better man of the two. I’ll tell you what he is, Phineas, and how he is better than all the real knights of whom I have read in story. He is a man altogether without guile, and entirely devoted to his country. Do not quarrel with him, if you can help it.’

Phineas had not the slightest desire to quarrel with his chief, but he did think it to be not improbable that his chief would quarrel with him. It was notorious to him as a member of the Cabinet,–as a colleague living with other colleagues by whom the Prime Minister was coddled, and especially as the husband of his wife, who lived almost continually with the Prime Minister’s wife,–that the Duke was cut to the quick by the accusation that he had hounded Ferdinand Lopez to his death. The Prime Minister had defended himself in the House against the first change by means of Phineas Finn, and now required Phineas to defend him from the second charge in another way. This he was obliged to refuse to do. And then the Minister’s private Secretary looked very grave, and left him with the impression that the Duke would be much annoyed, if not offended. And already there had grown up an idea that the Duke would have on the list of his colleagues none who were personally disagreeable to himself. Though he was by no means a strong Minister in regard to political measures, or the proper dominion of his party, still men were afraid of him. It was not that he would call upon them to resign, but that, if aggrieved, he would resign himself. Sir Orlando Drought had rebelled and had tried a fall with the Prime Minister,–and had greatly failed. Phineas determined that if frowned upon he would resign, but that he certainly would bring no action for libel against the “People’s Banner”.

A week passed after he had seen Warburton before he by chance found himself alone with the Prime Minister. This occurred at the house in Carlton Gardens, at which he was a frequent visitor, –and could hardly have ceased to be so without being noticed, as his wife spent half her time there. It was evident to him then that the occasion was sought for by the Duke. ‘Mr Finn,’ said the Duke, ‘I wanted to have a word with you.’

‘Certainly,’ said Phineas, arresting his steps.

‘Warburton spoke to you about that–that newspaper.’

‘Yes, Duke. He seemed to think that there should be an action for libel.’

‘I thought so too. It was very bad, you know.’

‘Yes;–it was bad. I have known the “People’s Banner” for some time, and it is always bad.’

‘No doubt;–no doubt. It is bad, very bad. Is it not sad that there should be such dishonesty, and that nothing can be done to stop it? Warburton says that you won’t hear of an action in your name?’

‘There are reasons, Duke.’

‘No doubt;–no doubt. Well;–there’s an end of it. I own I think the man should be punished. I am not often vindictive, but I think that he should be punished. However, I suppose it cannot be.’

‘I don’t see the way.’

‘So be it. So be it. It must be entirely for you to judge. Are you not longing to get into the country, Mr Finn?’

‘Hardly yet,’ said Phineas, surprised. ‘It’s only June, and we have two months more of it. What is the use of longing yet?’

‘Two months more!’ said the Duke. ‘Two months certainly. But even two months will come to an end. We go down to Matching quietly,–very quietly,–when the time does come. You must promise me that you’ll come with us. Eh? I make a point of it Mr Finn.’

Phineas did promise, and thought that he had succeeded in mastering one of the difficult passages in that book.

CHAPTER 63

THE DUCHESS AND HER FRIEND.

But the Duke, though he was by far too magnanimous to be angry with Phineas Finn because Phineas would not fall into his views respecting the proposed action, was not the less tormented and goaded by what the newspaper said. The assertion that he had hounded Ferdinand Lopez to death, that by his defence of himself he had brought the man’s blood on his head, was made and repeated till those round him did not dare to mention the name of Lopez in his hearing. Even his wife was restrained and became fearful, and in her heart of hearts began almost to wish for that retirement to which he occasionally alluded as a distant Elysium which he should never be allowed to reach. He was beginning to have the worn look of an old man. His scanty hair was turning grey, and his long thin cheeks longer and thinner. Of what he did when sitting alone in his chamber, either at home or at the Treasury Chamber, she knew less and less from day to day, and she began to think that much of the sorrow arose from the fact that among them they would allow him to do nothing. There was no special subject now which stirred him to eagerness and brought upon herself explanations which were tedious and unintelligible to her, but evidently delightful to him. There were no quints or semi-tenths now, no aspirations for decimal perfection, no delightfully fatiguing hours spent in the manipulation of the multiplication table. And she could not but observe that the old Duke now spoke to her much less frequently of her husband’s political position than had been his habit. He still came frequently to the house, but did not often see her. And when he did see her he seemed to avoid all allusion either to the political successes or the political reverses of the Coalition. And even her other special allies seemed to labour under unusual restraint with her. Barrington Erle seldom told her any news. Mr Rattler never had a word for her. Warburton, who had ever been discreet, became almost petrified by discretion. And even Phineas Finn had grown to be solemn, silent and uncommunicative. ‘Have you heard who is the new Prime Minister?’ she said to Mrs Finn one day.

‘Has there been a change?’

‘I suppose so. Everything has become so quiet that I cannot imagine that Plantagenet is still in office. Do you know what anybody is doing?’

‘The world is going on very smoothly, I take it.’

‘I hate smoothness. It always means treachery and danger. I feel sure that there will be a great blow up before long. I smell it in the air. Don’t you tremble for your husband?’

‘Why should I? He likes being in office because it gives him something to do; but he would never be an idle man. As long as he has a seat in Parliament, I shall be contented.’

‘To have been Prime Minister is something after all, and they can’t rob him of that,’ said the Duchess recurring again to her own husband. ‘I half fancy sometimes that the charm of the thing is growing up on him.’

‘Upon the Duke?’

‘Yes. He is always talking of the delight he will have in giving it up. He is always Cincinnatus, going back to his peaches and his ploughs. But I fear he is beginning to feel that the salt would be gone out of his life if he ceased to be the first man in the kingdom. He has never said so, but there is a nervousness about him when I suggest to him the name of this or that man as his successor which alarms me. And I think he is becoming a tyrant with his own men. He spoke the other day of Lord Drummond almost as though he meant to have him whipped. It isn’t what one expected from him,–is it?’

‘The weight of the load on his mind makes him irritable.’

‘Either that, or having no load. If he had really much to do he wouldn’t surely have time to think so much of that poor wretch who destroyed himself. Such sensitiveness is simply a disease. One can never punish any fault in the world if the sinner can revenge himself upon us by rushing into eternity. Sometimes I see him shiver and shudder, and then I know he is thinking of Lopez.’

‘I can understand all that, Lady Glen.’

‘It isn’t as it should be, though you can understand it. I’ll bet you a guinea that Sir Timothy Beeswax has to go out before the beginning of the next Session.’

‘I’ve no objection. But why Sir Timothy?’

‘He mentioned Lopez’s name the other day before Plantagenet. I heard him. Plantagenet pulled that long face of his, looking as though he meant to impose silence on the whole world for the next six weeks. But Sir Timothy is brass itself, a sounding cymbal of brass that nothing can silence. He went on to declare with that loud voice of his that the death of Lopez was a good riddance to bad rubbish. Plantagenet turned away and left the room and shut himself up. He didn’t declare to himself that he would dismiss Sir Timothy, because that’s not the way of his mind. But you’ll see that Sir Timothy will have to go.’

‘That, at any rate, will be a good riddance of bad rubbish’ said Mrs Finn, who did not love Sir Timothy Beeswax.

Soon after that the Duchess made up her mind that she would interrogate the Duke of St Bungay as to the present state of affairs. It was then the end of June, and nearly one of those long and tedious months had gone by of which the Duke spoke so feelingly when he asked Phineas Finn to come down to Matching. Hope had been expressed in more than one quarter that this would be a short Session. Such hopes are more common in June than in July, and, though rarely verified, serve to keep up the drooping spirits of languid senators. ‘I suppose we shall be early out of town, Duke,’ she said one day.

‘I think so. I don’t see what there is to keep us. It often happens that ministers are a great deal better in the country than in London, and I fancy it will be so this year.’

‘You never think of the poor girls who haven’t got their husbands yet.’

‘They should make better use of their time. Besides, they can get their husbands in the country.’

‘It’s quite true that they never get to the end of their labours. They are not like you members of Parliament who can shut up your portfolios and go and shoot grouse. They have to keep at their work spring and summer, autumn and winter,–year after year! How they must hate the men they persecute!’

‘I don’t think we can put off going for their sake.’

‘Men are always selfish, I know. What do you think of Plantagenet lately?’ The question was put very abruptly, without a moment’s notice, and there was no avoiding it.

‘Think of him!’

‘Yes;–what do you think of his condition;–of his happiness, his health, his capacity of endurance? Will he be able to go on much longer? Now, my dear Duke, don’t stare at me like that. You know, and I know, that you haven’t spoken a word to me for the last two months. And you know, I know, how many things there are of which we are both thinking in common. You haven’t quarrelled with Plantagenet?’

‘Quarrelled with him! Good heavens no.’

‘Of course I know you still call him your noble colleague, and your noble friend, and make one of the same team with him and all that. But it used to be so much more than that.’

‘It is still much more than that;–much more.’

‘It was you who made him Prime Minister.’

‘No, no, no;–and again no. He made himself Prime Minister by obtaining the confidence of the House of Commons. There is no other possible way in which a man can become Prime Minister in this country.’

‘If I were not very serious at this moment, Duke, I should make an allusion to the–Marines.’ No other human being could have said this to the Duke of St Bungay, except the young woman whom he had petted all his life as Lady Glencora. ‘But I am very serious,’ she continued, ‘and I may say I am not very happy. Of course the big wigs of a party have to settle among themselves who shall be their leader, and when this party was formed they settled, at your advice, that Plantagenet should be the man.’

‘My dear Lady Glencora, I cannot allow that to pass without contradiction.’

‘Do not suppose that I am finding fault, or even that I am ungrateful. No one rejoiced as I rejoiced. No one still feels so much pride in it as I feel. I would have given ten years of my life to keep him so. It is like it was to be king, when men struggled among themselves who should be king. Whatever he may be, I am ambitious. I love to think that other men should look at him as being above them, and that something of this should come down upon me as his wife. I do not know whether it was not the happiest moment of my life when he told me that the Queen had sent for him.’

‘It was not so with him.’

‘No, Duke,–no! He and I are very different. He only wants to be useful. At any rate, that was all he did want.’

‘He is still the same.’

‘A man cannot always be carrying a huge load up a hill without having his back bent.’

‘I don’t know that the load need be so heavy, Duchess.’

‘Ah, but what is the load? It is not going to the Treasury Chambers at eleven or twelve in the morning and sitting four or five times a week in the House of Lords till seven or eight o’clock. He was never ill when he would remain in the House of Commons till two in the morning, and not have a decent dinner above twice in the week. The load I speak of isn’t work.’

‘What is it then?’ said the Duke, who in truth understood it all nearly as well as the Duchess herself.

‘It is hard to explain, but it is very heavy.’

‘Responsibility, my dear, will always be very heavy.’

‘But it is hardly that;–certainly not that alone. It is the feeling that so many people blame him for so many things, and the doubt in his own mind whether he may not deserve it. And then he becomes fretful, and conscious that such fretfulness is beneath him, and injurious to his honour. He condemns men in his mind, and condemns himself for condescending to condemn them. He spends one quarter of an hour thinking that as he is Prime Minister he will be Prime Minister down to his fingers’ ends, and the next in resolving that he never ought to have been Prime Minister at all.’ Here something like a frown passed across the old man’s brow, which was, however, no indication of anger. ‘Dear Duke,’ she said, ‘you must not be angry with me. Who is there to whom I can speak but you?’

‘Angry, my dear! No, indeed!’

‘Because you looked as though you would scold me.’ At this he smiled. ‘And of course all this tells upon his health.’

‘Do you think he is ill?’

‘He never says so. There is no special illness. But he is thin and wan and careworn. He does not eat and he does not sleep. Of course I watch him.’

‘Does his doctor see him?’

‘Never. When I asked him once to say a word to Sir James Thorax, –for he was getting hoarse, you know,–he only shook his head and turned on his heels. When he was in the other House, and speaking every night, he would see Thorax constantly, and do just what he was told. He used to like opening his mouth and having Sir James look down it. But now he won’t let anyone touch him.’

‘What would you have me do, Lady Glen?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you think that he is so far out of his health that he ought to give it up?’

‘I don’t say that. I don’t dare say that. I don’t dare to recommend anything. No consideration of health would tell with him at all. If he were to die to-morrow as the penalty of doing something useful to-night, he wouldn’t think twice about it. If you wanted to make him stay where he is, the way to do it to tell him that his health was failing him. I don’t know that he does want to give it up now.’

‘The autumn months will do everything for him;–only let him be quiet.’

‘You are coming to Matching, Duke?’

‘I suppose so;–if you ask me,–for a week or two.’

‘You must come. I am quite nervous if you desert us. I think he becomes estranged every day from all the others. I know you won’t do a mischief by repeating what I say.’

‘I hope not.’

‘He seems to me to turn his nose up at everybody. He used to like Mr Monk; but he envies Mr Monk, because Mr Monk is Chancellor of the Exchequer. I asked him whether we shouldn’t have Lord Drummond at Matching and he told me angrily that I might ask the whole Government if I liked.’

‘Drummond contradicted him the other day.’

‘I knew there was something. He has got to be like a bear with a sore head, Duke. You should have seen his face the other day, when Mr Rattler made some suggestion to him about the proper way of dividing farms.’

‘I don’t think he ever liked Rattler.’

‘What of that? Don’t I have to smile upon men whom I hate like poison;–and women too, which is worse? Do you think that I love old Lady Ramsden, or Mrs MacPherson? He used to be so fond of Lord Cantrip.’

‘I think he likes Lord Cantrip,’ said the Duke.

‘He asked his lordship to do something and Lord Cantrip declined.’

‘I know all about that,’ said the Duke.

‘And now he looks gloomy at Lord Cantrip. His friends won’t stand that kind of thing, you know, for ever.’

‘He is always courteous to Finn,’ said the Duke.

‘Yes;–just now he is on good terms with Mr Finn. He would never be harsh to Mr Finn, because he knows that Mrs Finn is the one really intimate female friend whom I have in the world. After all, Duke, besides Plantagenet and the children, there are only two persons in the world whom I really love. There are only you and she. She will never desert me,–and you must not desert me either.’ Then he put his hand behind her waist, and stooped over and kissed her brow, and swore to her that he would never desert her.

But what was he to do? He knew, without being told by the Duchess, that his colleague and chief was becoming, from day to day, more difficult to manage. He had been right enough in laying it down as a general rule that Prime Ministers are selected for that position by the general confidence of the House of Commons;–but he was aware at the same time that it had hardly been so in the present instance. There had come to be a deadlock in affairs, during which neither of the two old and recognised leaders of parties could command a sufficient following for the carrying on of a government. With unusual patience these two gentlemen had now for the greater part of three Sessions sat by, offering but little opposition to the Coalition, but of course biding their time. They, too, called themselves,–perhaps thought themselves,–Cincinnatuses. But their ploughs and peaches did not suffice to them, and they longed again to be in every mouth, and to have, if to their deeds, then even their omissions blazoned in every paragraph. The palate accustomed to Cayenne pepper can hardly be gratified by simple salt. When that deadlock had come, politicians who were really anxious for the country had been forced to look about for a Premier,–and in the search the old Duke had been the foremost. The Duchess had hardly said more than the truth when she declared that her husband’s promotion had been effected by their old friend. But it is sometimes easier to make than unmake. Perhaps the time had now in truth come, in which it would be better for the country that the usual state of things should again exist. Perhaps,–nay, the Duke now thought that he saw that it was so,–Mr Gresham might again have a Liberal majority at his back if the Duke of Omnium could find some graceful mode of retiring. But who was to tell all this to the Duke of Omnium? There was only one man in all England to whom such a task was possible, and that was the old Duke himself,– who during the last two years had been constantly with his friend not to retire! How often since he had taken office had the conscientious and timid Minister begged of his friend permission to abandon his high office! But that permission had always been refused, and now, for the last three months, the request had not been repeated. The Duchess was probably right in saying that her husband ‘didn’t want to give it up now.’

But he, the Duke of St Bungay, had brought his friend into the trouble, and it was certainly his duty to extricate him from it. The admonition might come in the rude shape of repeated minorities in the House of Commons. Hitherto the number of votes at the command of the Ministry had not been very much impaired. A few always fell off as time goes on. Aristides becomes too just, and the mind of man is greedy of novelty. Sir Orlando also, had taken with him a few, and it may be that two or three had told themselves that there could not be all that smoke raised by the “People’s Banner”, without some fire below it. But there was a good working majority,–very much at Mr Monk’s command,– and Mr Monk was moved by none of that feeling of rebellion which had urged Sir Orlando on to his destruction. It was difficult to find a cause for resignation. And yet the Duke of St Bungay, who had watched the House of Commons closely for nearly half a century, was aware that the Coalition which he had created had done its work, and was almost convinced that it would not be permitted to remain very much longer in power. He had seen some symptoms of impatience in Mr Daubney, and Mr Gresham had snorted once and twice, as though eager for battle.

CHAPTER 64

THE NEW K.G.

Early in June had died the Marquess of Mount Fidgett. In all England there was no older family than that of the Fichy Fidgetts, whose baronial castle of Fichy Fellows is still kept up, the glory of archaeologists and the charm of tourists. Some people declare it to be the most perfect castle residence in the country. It is admitted to have been completed in the time of Edward VI, and is thought to have commenced in the days of Edward I. It has always belonged to the Fichy Fidgett family, who with a persistence that is becoming rarer every day, has clung to every acre that it ever owned, and has added acre to acre in every age. The consequence has been that the existing Marquis of Mount Fidgett has always been possessed of great territorial influence, and has been flattered, cajoled, and revered by one Prime Minister after another. Now the late Marquis had been, as was the custom with the Fichy Fidgetts, a man of pleasure. If the truth be spoken openly, it should be admitted that he had been a man of sin. The duty of keeping together the family property he had performed with a perfect zeal. It had always been acknowledged on behalf of the existing Marquis, that in whatever manner he might spend his money, however base might be the gullies into which his wealth descended, he never spent more that he had to spend. Perhaps there was but little praise in this, as he could hardly have got beyond his enormous income unless he had thrown it away on race-courses and roulette tables. But it had long been remarked of the Mount Fidgett marquises that they were too wise to gamble. The family had not been an honour to the country, but had nevertheless been honoured by the country. The man who had just died had perhaps been as selfish and sensual a brute as had ever disgraced humanity;–but nevertheless he had been a Knight of the Garter. He had been possessed of considerable parliamentary interest, and the Prime Minister of the day had not dared not to make him a Knight of the Garter. All the Marquises of Mount Fidgett had for many years past been Knights of the Garter. On the last occasion a good deal had been said about it. A feeling had even then begun to prevail that the highest personal offer in the gift of the Crown should not be bestowed upon a man whose whole life was a disgrace, and who did indeed seem to deserve every punishment which a human or divine wrath could inflict. He had a large family, but they were illegitimate. Wives generally he liked, but of his own wife he very soon broke the heart. Of all the companies with which he consorted he was the admitted king, but his subjects could do no man any honour. The Castle of Fichy Fellows was visited by the world at large, but no man or woman with a character to lose went into any house really inhabited by the Marquis. And yet he had become a Knight of the Garter, and was therefore, presumably, one of those noble Englishmen to whom the majesty of the day was willing to confide the honour, and glory, and safety of the Crown. There were many who disliked this. That a base reprobate should become a Marquis and a peer of Parliament was in accordance with the constitution of the country. Marquises and peers are not as a rule reprobates, and the misfortune was one which could not be avoided. He might have ill-used his own wife and other wives’ husbands without special remark had he not been made a Knight of the Garter. The Minister of the day, however, had known the value of the man’s support, and being thick- skinned, had lived through the reproaches uttered without much damage to himself. Now the wicked Marquis was dead, and it was the privilege and the duty of the Duke of Omnium to select another knight.

There was a good deal said about it at the time. There was a rumour,–no doubt a false rumour,–that the Crown insisted in this instance on dictating a choice to the Duke of Omnium. But even were it so, the Duke could not have been very much aggrieved, as the choice dictated was supposed to be that himself. The late Duke had been a Knight, and when he had died, it was thought that his successor would succeed to the ribbon. The new Duke had been at the time in the Cabinet, and had remained there, but had accepted an office inferior in rank to that which he had formerly filled. The whole history of these things has been written, and may be read by the curious. The Duchess, newly a duchess then and very keen in reference to her husband’s rank, had instigated him to demand the ribbon as his right. This he had not only declined to do, but had gone out of the way to say that he thought it should be bestowed elsewhere. It had been bestowed elsewhere, and there had been a very general feeling that he had been passed over because his easy temperament in such matters had been seen and utilized. Now, whether the Crown interfered or not,–a matter on which no one short of a writer of newspaper articles dares to make suggestion till time shall have made mellow the doings of sovereigns and their ministers,–the suggestion was made. The Duke of St Bungay ventured to say to his friend that no other selection was possible.

‘Recommend her Majesty to give it to myself?’ said the Prime Minister.

‘You will find it to be her Majesty’s wish. It has been very common. Sir Robert Walpole had it.’

‘I am not Sir Robert Walpole.’ The Duke named other examples of Prime Ministers who had been gartered by themselves. But our Prime Minister declared it to be out of the question. No honour of that description should be conferred upon him as long as he held his present position. The old Duke was much in earnest, and there was a great deal said on the subject,–but at last it became clear, not only to him, but to the members of the Cabinet generally, and then to the outside world, that the Prime Minister would not consent to accept the vacant honour.

For nearly a month after this the question subsided. A Minister is not bound to bestow a Garter the day after it becomes vacant. There are other Knights to guard the throne, and one may be spared for a short interval. But during the interval many eyes were turned towards the stall in St George’s Chapel. A good thing should be given away like a clap of thunder if envy, hatred, and malice are to be avoided. A broad blue ribbon across the chest is of all decorations the most becoming, or, at any rate, the most desired. And there was, I fear, an impression on the minds of some men that the Duke in such matters was weak and might be persuaded. Then there came to him an application in the form of a letter from the new Marquis of Mount Fidgett,–a man whom he had never seen, and of whom he had never heard. The new Marquis had hitherto resided in Italy, and men only knew of him that he was odious to his uncle. But he had inherited all the Fichy Fidgett estates, and was now possessed of immense wealth and great honour. He ventured, he said, to represent to the Prime Minister that for generations past the Marquises of Mount Fidgett had been honoured by the Garter. His political status in the country was exactly that enjoyed by his late uncle, but he intended that his political career should be very different. He was quite prepared to support the Coalition. ‘What is he that he should expect to be made a Knight of the Garter?’ said our Duke to the old Duke.

‘He is the Marquis of Mount Fidgett, and next to yourself, perhaps, the richest peer in Great Britain.’

‘Have riches anything to do with it?’

‘Something certainly. You would not want to name a pauper peer.’

‘Yes;–if he was a man whose career had been highly honourable to the country. Such a man, of course, could not be a pauper, but I do not think his want of wealth should stand in the way of his being honoured by the Garter.’

‘Wealth and rank and territorial influence have been generally thought to have something to do with it.’

‘And character nothing!’

‘My dear Duke, I have not said so.’

‘Something very much like it, my friend, if you advocate the claim of the Marquis of Mount Fidgett. Did you approve of the selection of the late Marquis?’

‘I was in the Cabinet at the time, and will therefore say nothing against it. But I have never heard anything against this man’s character.’

‘Nor in favour of it. To my thinking he has as much claim, and no more, as that man who just opened the door. He was never seen in the Lower House.’

‘Surely that cannot signify.’

‘You think, then, that he should have it?’

‘You know what I think,’ said the elder statesman thoughtfully. ‘In my opinion there is no doubt that you would at least consult the honour of the country by allowing her Majesty to bestow this act of grace upon a subject who has deserved so well from her Majesty as yourself.’

‘It is quite impossible.’

‘It seems to me,’ said the Duke, not appearing to notice the refusal of his friend, ‘that in this peculiar position you should allow yourself to be persuaded to lay aside your own feeling. No man of high character is desirous of securing to himself decorations which he may bestow upon others.’

‘Just so.’

‘But here the decoration bestowed upon the chief whom we all follow, would confer a wider honour upon many than it could do if given to anyone else.’

‘The same may be said of any Prime Minister.’

‘Not so. A commoner, without high permanent rank or large fortune, is not lowered in the world’s esteem by not being of the Order. You will permit me to say–that a Duke of Omnium has not reached the position which he ought to enjoy unless he is a Knight of the Garter.’ It must be borne in mind that the old Duke, who used this argument, had himself worn the ribbon for the last thirty years. ‘But if–‘

‘Well;–well.’

‘But if you are,–I must call it obstinate.’

‘I am obstinate in that respect.’

‘Then,’ said the Duke of St Bungay, ‘I should recommend her Majesty to give it to the Marquis.’

‘Never,’ said the Prime Minister, with very unaccustomed energy. ‘I will never sanction the payment of such a price for services which should never be bought or sold.’

‘It would give no offence.’

‘That is not enough, my friend. Here is a man of whom I only know that he has bought a great many marble statues. He has done nothing for his country, and nothing for his sovereign.’

‘If you are determined to look at what you call desert alone, I would name Lord Drummond.’ The Prime Minister frowned and looked unhappy. It was quite true that Lord Drummond had contradicted him, and that he had felt the injury grievously. ‘Lord Drummond has been very true to us.’

‘Yes;–true to us! What is that?’

‘He is in every respect a man of character, and well looked upon in the country. There would be some enmity and a good deal of envy–which might be avoided by either of the other courses I have proposed; but those courses you will not take. I take it for granted that you are anxious to secure the support of those who generally act with Lord Drummond.’

‘I don’t know that I am.’ The old Duke shrugged his shoulders. ‘What I mean is, that I do not think that we ought to pay an increased price for their support. His lordship is very well as the Head of an Office; but he is not nearly so great a man as my friend Lord Cantrip.’

‘Cantrip would not join us. There is no evil in politics so great as that of seeming to buy the men who will not come without buying. These rewards are fairly given for political support.’

‘I had not, in truth, thought of Lord Cantrip.’

‘He does not expect it any more than my butler.’

‘I only named him as having a claim stronger than any that Lord Drummond can put forward. I have a man in my mind to whom I think such an honour is fairly due. What do you say to Lord Earlybird?’ The old Duke opened his mouth and lifted up his hands in unaffected surprise.

The Earl of Earlybird was an old man of a very peculiar character. He had never opened his mouth in the House of Lords, and had never sat in the House of Commons. The political world knew him not at all. He had a house in town, but very rarely lived there. Early Park, in the parish of B Bird, had been his residence since he first came to the title forty years ago, and had been the scene of all his labours. He was a nobleman possessed of a moderate fortune, and, as men said of him, of a moderate intellect. He had married early in life and was blessed with a large family. But he had certainly not been an idle man. For nearly half a century he had devoted himself to the improvement of the labouring classes, especially in reference to their abodes and education, and gradually without any desire on his own part, worked himself up into public notice. He was not an eloquent man, but he would take the chair at meeting after meeting, and sit with admirable patience for long hours to hear the eloquence of others. He was a man very simple in his tastes, and had brought up his family to follow his habits. He had therefore been able to do munificent things with moderate means, and in the long course of years had failed in hiding his munificence from the public. Lord Earlybird, till after middle life, had not been much considered, but gradually there had grown up a feeling that there were not very many better men in the country. He was a fat, bald-headed old man, who was always pulling his spectacles on and off, nearly blind, very awkward, and altogether indifferent to appearance. Probably he had no more idea of the Garter in his own mind than he had of a Cardinal’s hat. But he had grown into fame, and had not escaped the notice of the Prime Minister.

‘Do you know anything against Lord Earlybird?’ asked the Prime Minister.

‘Certainly nothing against him, Duke.’

‘Not anything in his favour?’

‘I know him very well,–I think I may say intimately. There isn’t a better man breathing.’

‘A honour to the peerage?’ said the Prime Minister.

‘An honour to humanity rather,’ said the other, ‘as being of all men the least selfish and most philanthropical.’

‘What more can be said for a man?’

‘But according to my view he is not the sort of person whom one would wish to see made a Knight of the Garter. If he had the ribbon he would never wear it.’

‘The honour surely does not consist in its outward sign. I am entitled to wear some kind of coronet, but I do not walk about with it on my head. He is a man of great heart and of many virtues. Surely the country, and her Majesty on behalf of the country, should delight to honour such a man.’

‘I really doubt whether you look at the matter in the right light,’ said the ancient statesman, who was in truth frightened at what was being proposed. ‘You must not be angry with me if I speak plainly.’

‘My friend, I do not think that it is within your power to make me angry.’

‘Well then,–I will get for a moment to listen to my view on the matter. There are certain great prizes in the gift of the Crown and of the Ministers of the Crown,–the greatest of which are now traditionally at the disposal of the Prime Minister. These are always given to party friends. I may perhaps agree with you that party support should not be looked to alone. Let us acknowledge that character and services should be taken into account. But the very theory of our Government will be overset by a reversal of the rule which I have attempted to describe. You will offend all your own friends, and only incur the ridicule of your opponents. It is no doubt desirable that the high seats of the country should be filled by men of both parties. I would not wish to see every Lord Lieutenant of a county a Whig.’ In his enthusiasm the old Duke went back to his old phraseology. ‘But I know that my opponents when their turn comes will appoint their friends to the Lieutenancies and that the balance will be maintained. If you or I appoint their friends, they won’t appoint ours. Lord Earlybird’s proxy has been in the hands of the Conservative Leader of the House of Lords ever since he succeeded his father.’ Then the old man paused, but his friend waited to listen whether the lecture were finished before he spoke, and the Duke of St Bungay continued. ‘And, moreover, though Lord Earlybird is a very good man,–so much so that many of us may well envy him,–he is not just the man fitted for this destination. A Knight of the Garter should be a man prone to show himself, a public man, one whose work in the country has brought him face to face with his fellows. There is an aptness, a propriety, a fitness in these things which one can understand perhaps better than explain.’

‘Those fitnesses and aptnesses change, I think, from day to day. There was a time when a knight should be a fighting man.’

‘That has gone by.’

‘And the aptness and fitness in accordance with which the sovereign of the day was induced to grace with the Garter such a man as the late Marquis of Mount Fidgett have, I hope, gone by. You will admit that?’

‘There is no such man proposed.’

‘And other fitnesses and aptnesses will go by, till the time will come when the man to be selected as Lieutenant of a county will be the man whose selection will be most beneficial to the county, and Knights of the Garter will be chosen for their real virtues.’

‘I think you are Quixotic. A Prime Minister is of all men bound to follow the traditions of his country, or, when he leaves them, to leave them with very gradual steps.’

‘And if he break that law and throw over all that thraldom;– what then?’

‘He will lose the confidence which has made him what he is.’

‘It is well that I know the penalty. It is hardly heavy enough to enforce strict obedience. As for the matter in dispute, it had better stand over for a few days.’ When the Prime Minister said this the old Duke knew very well that he intended to have his own way.

And so it was. A week passed by, and then the younger Duke wrote to the elder Duke saying that he had given to the matter all the consideration in his power, and that he had at last resolved to recommend her Majesty to bestow the ribbon on Lord Earlybird. He would not, however, take any step for a few days so that his friend might have an opportunity of making further remonstrance if he pleased. No further remonstrance was made, and Lord Earlybird, much to his own amazement, was nominated to the vacant Garter.

The appointment was one certainly not popular with any of the Prime Minister’s friends. With some, such as Lord Drummond, it indicated a determination on the part of the Duke to declare his freedom from all those bonds which had hitherto been binding on the Heads of Government. Had the Duke selected himself, certainly no offence would have been given. Had the Marquis of Mount Fidgett been the happy man, excuses would have been made. But it was unpardonable to Lord Drummond that he should have been passed over and that the Garter should have been given to Lord Earlybird. To the poor old Duke the offence was of a different nature. He had intended to use a very strong word when he told his friend that his proposed conduct would be Quixotic. The Duke of Omnium would surely know that the Duke of St Bungay could not support a Quixotic Prime Minister. And yet the younger Duke, the Telemachus of the last two years,–after hearing that word,– had rebelled against his Mentor, and had obstinately adhered to his Quixotism! The greed of power had fallen upon the man,–so said the dear old Duke to himself,–and the man’s fall was certain. Alas, alas; had he been allowed to go before the poison had entered his veins, how much less would have been his suffering!

CHAPTER 65

THERE MUST BE TIME.

At the end of the third week in July, when the Session was still sitting, and when no day had been absolutely as yet fixed for the escape of members, Mr Wharton received a letter from his friend Arthur Fletcher which certainly surprised him very much, and which left him for a day or two unable to decide what answer ought to be given. It will be remembered that Ferdinand Lopez destroyed himself in March, now three months since. The act had been more than a nine days’ wonder, having been kept in the memory of many men by the sedulous efforts of Quintus Slide, and by the fact that the name of so great a man as the Prime Minister was concerned in the matter. But gradually the feeling about Ferdinand Lopez had died away, and his fate, though it had outlived the nominal nine days, had sunk into general oblivion before the end of the ninth week. The Prime Minister had not forgotten the man, nor had Quintus Slide. The name was still common in the columns of the “People’s Banner”, and was ever mentioned without being read by the unfortunate Duke. But others had ceased to talk about Ferdinand Lopez.

To the mind, however, of Arthur Fletcher the fact of the man’s death was always present. A dreadful incubus had come upon his life, blighting all his prospects, obscuring all his sun by a great cloud, covering up all his hopes, and changing for him all his outlook into the world. It was not only that Emily Wharton should not have become his wife, but that the woman whom he loved with so perfect a love, should have been sacrificed to so vile a creature as this man. He never blamed her,–but looked upon his fate as Fate. Then on a sudden he heard that the incubus was removed. The man who had made him and her wretched had by a sudden stroke been taken away and annihilated. There was nothing between him and her,–but a memory. He could certainly forgive, if she could forget.

Of course he had felt at the first moment that time must pass by. He had become certain that her mad love for the man had perished. He had been made sure that she had repented her own deed in sackcloth and ashes. It had been acknowledged to him by her father that she had been anxious to be separated from her husband if her husband would consent to such a separation. And then, remembering as he did his last interview with her, having in his mind as he had every circumstance of that caress which he had given her,–down to the very quiver of the fingers he had pressed,–he could not but flatter himself that at last he had touched her heart. But there must be time! The conventions of the world operate on all hearts, especially on the female heart, and teach that new vows, too quickly given, are disgraceful. The world has seemed to decide that a widow should take two years before she can bestow herself on a second man without a touch of scandal. But the two years is to include everything, the courtship of the second as well as the burial of the first,–and not only the courtship, but the preparation of the dresses and the wedding itself. And then this case was different from all the others. Of course there must be time, but surely not here a full period of two years! Why should the life of two young persons be so wasted, if it were the case that they loved each other! There was horror here, remorse, pity, perhaps pardon; but there was no love,–none of that love which is always for a little time increased in its fervour by the loss of the loved object; none of that passionate devotion which must at first make the very idea of another man’s love intolerable. There had been a great escape,–an escape which could not but be inwardly acknowledged, however little prone the tongue might be to confess it. Of course there must be time,–but how much time? He argued it in his mind daily, and at each daily argument the time considered by him to be appropriate was shortened. Three months had passed and he had not yet seen her. He had resolved that he would not even attempt to see her till her father would consent. But surely a period had passed sufficient to justify him in applying for that permission. And then he bethought himself that it would be best in applying for that permission to tell everything to Mr Wharton. He well knew that he would be telling no secret. Mr Wharton knew the state of his feelings as well as he knew it himself. If ever there was a case in which time might be abridged, this was one; and therefore he wrote his letter,– as follows:

3,–Court Temple,
24th July, 187-
MY DEAR MR WHARTON,
It is a matter of great regret to me that we should see so little of each other,–especially of regret that I should never see Emily.

I may as well rush into the matter at once. Of course this letter will not be shown to her, and therefore I may write as I would speak if I were with you. The wretched man whom she married is gone, and my love for her is the same as it was before she had ever seen him, and as it has always been from that day to this. I could not address you or even think of her as yet, did I not know that that marriage had been unfortunate. But it has not altered her to me in the heart. It has been a dreadful trouble to us all–to her, to you, to me, and to all connected with us. But it is over, and I think that it should be looked back upon as a black chasm which we have bridged and got over, and to which we never cast back our eyes.

I have no right to think that, though she might some day love another man, she would therefore, love me, but I think that I have a right to try, and I know that I should have your good-will. It is a question of time, but if I let time go by, someone else may slip in. Who can tell? I would not be thought to press indecently, but I do feel that here the ordinary rules which govern men and women are not to be followed. He made her unhappy almost from the first day. She had made a mistake which you and she and all acknowledged. She has been punished, and so have I,–very severely I can assure you. Wouldn’t it be a good thing to bring all this to an end as soon as possible,–if it can be brought to an end in the way I want?

Pray tell me what you think. I would propose that you should ask her to see me, and then say just as much as you please. Of course I should not press her at first. You might ask me to dinner, and all that kind of thing, and so she would get used to me. It is not as though we had not been very, very old friends. But I know you will do the best. I have put off writing to you till I sometimes think that I shall go mad over it if I sit still any longer.
Your affectionate friend,
ARTHUR FLETCHER.

When Mr Wharton got this letter he was very much puzzled. Could he have had his wish, he too would have left the chasm behind him as proposed by his young friend, and have never cast an eye back upon the frightful abyss. He would willingly have allowed the whole Lopez incident to be passed over as an episode in their lives, which, if it could not be forgotten, should at any rate never be mentioned. They had all been severely punished, as Fletcher had said, and if the matter could end there he would be well content to bear on his own shoulders all that remained of the punishment, and to let everything begin again. But he knew very well it could not be so with her. Even yet it was impossible to induce Emily to think of her husband without regret. It had been only too manifest during the last year of their married life that she had felt horror rather than love towards him. When there had been a question of his leaving her behind, should he go to Central America, she had always expressed herself more than willing to comply with such an arrangement. She would go with him should he order her to do so, but would infinitely sooner remain in England. And then too, she had spoken of him while alive with disdain and disgust, 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 re- established. 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 as 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, has 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 Hertfordshire?’ 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 do glad if you would have somebody sometimes. I shouldn’t think then that I was such a–such a restraint on 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 Hertfordshire?’

‘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.’

CHAPTER 66

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 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 or that. He had never allowed himself a hobby horse of his own to ride, had never been ambitious, had never sought to be the ostensible leader of men. But he did now think that when, with all his experience, he spoke very much in earnest, some attention should be paid to what he said. When he had described a certain line of conduct as Quixotic he had been very much in earnest. He did not usually indulge in strong language, and Quixotic, when applied to the conduct of the Prime Minister, was, to his ideas, very strong. The thing described as Quixotic had now been done, and the Duke of St Bungay was a disappointed man.

For an hour or two he thought that he must gently secede from all private counsels with the Prime Minister. To resign, or to put impediments in the way of his own chief, did not belong to his character. That line of strategy had come into fashion since he had learnt his political rudiments, and was very odious to him. But in all party compacts there must be inner parties, peculiar bonds, and confidence stricter, stronger and also sweeter than those which bind together the twenty or thirty gentlemen who form a Government. From those closer ties which had hitherto bound him to the Duke of Omnium he thought, for a while, that he must divorce himself. Surely on such a subject as the nomination of a Knight of the Garter his advice might have been taken,–if only because it had come from him! And so he kept himself apart for a day or two, and even in the House of Lords ceased to whisper kindly, cheerful words into the ears of his next neighbour.

But various remembrances crowded in upon him by degrees, compelling him to moderate and at last to abandon his purpose. Among these the first was the memory of the kiss he had given to the Duchess. The woman had told him that she loved him, that he was one of the very few whom she did love,–and the word had gone straight into his old heart. She had bade him not to desert her; and he had not only given her his promise, but he had converted that promise into a sacred pledge by a kiss. He had known well why she had exacted the promise. The turmoil in her husband’s mind, the agony which he sometimes endured when people spoke ill of him, the aversion which he had at first genuinely felt to an office for which he hardly thought himself fit, and now the gradual love of power created by the exercise of power, had all been seen by her, and had created that solicitude which had induced her to ask for the promise. The old Duke had known them both well, but had hardly as yet given the Duchess credit for so true devotion to her husband. It now seemed to him that, though she had failed to love the man, she had given her entire heart to the Prime Minister. He sympathized with her altogether, and, at any rate, could not go back from his promise.

And then he remembered, too, that if this man did anything amiss in the high office which he had been made to fill, who had induced him to fill it was responsible. What right had he, the Duke of St Bungay, to be angry because his friend was not all- wise at all points? Let the Droughts and the Drummonds and the Beeswaxes quarrel among themselves or with their colleagues. He belonged to a different school, in the teachings of which there was less perhaps of excitement and more of long-suffering;–but surely, also, more of nobility. He was, at any rate, too old to change, and he would therefore be true to his friend through evil and through good. Having thought all this out he again whispered some cheery word to the Prime Minister, as they sat listening to the denunciations of Lord Fawn, a Liberal lord, much used to business, but who had not been received into the Coalition. The first whisper and the second whisper the Prime Minister received very coldly. He had fully appreciated the discontinuance of whispers, and was aware of the cause. He had made a selection on his own unassisted judgment in opposition to his old friend’s advice, and this was the result. Let it be so! All his friends were turning away from him and he would have to stand alone. If so, he would stand alone till the pendulum of the House of Commons had told him that it was time for him to retire. But gradually the determined good-humour of the old man prevailed. ‘He has a wonderful gift of saying nothing with second-rate dignity,’ whispered the repentant friend, speaking of Lord Fawn.

‘A very honest man,’ said the Prime Minister in return.

‘A sort of bastard honesty,–by precept out of stupidity. There is no real conviction in it, begotten by thought.’ This little bit of criticism, harsh as it was, had the effect, and the Prime Minister became less miserable than he had been.

But Lord Drummond forgave nothing. He still held his office, but more than once he was seen in private conference with both Sir Orlando and Mr Boffin. He did not attempt to conceal his anger. Lord Earlybird! An old woman! One whom no other man in England would have thought of making a Knight of the Garter! It was not, he said, personal disappointment in himself. There were half-a- dozen peers whom he would have willingly have seen so graced without the slightest chagrin. But this must have been done simply to show the Duke’s power, and to let the world understand that he owed nothing and would pay nothing to his supporters. It was almost a disgrace, said Lord Drummond, to belong to a Government the Head of which could so commit himself! The Session was nearly at an end, and Lord Drummond thought that no step could be conveniently taken now. But it was quite clear to him that this state of things could not be continued. It was observed that Lord Drummond and the Prime Minister never spoke to each other in the House, and that the Secretary of State for Colonies,–that being the office which he held,–never rose in his place after Lord Earlybird’s nomination, unless to say a word or two as to his own peculiar duties. It was very soon known to all the world that there was war to the knife between Lord Drummond and the Prime Minister.

And, strange to say, there seemed to be some feeling of general discontent on this very trifling subject. When Aristides had been much too just the oyster-shells became numerous. It was said that the Duke had been guilty of pretentious love of virtue in taking Lord Earlybird out of his own path of life and forcing him to write K.G. after his name. There came out an article, of course in the “People’s Banner”, headed, “Our Prime Minister’s Good Works”, in which poor Lord Earlybird was ridiculed in a very unbecoming manner, and in which it was asserted that the thing was done as a counterpoise to the iniquity displayed in ‘hounding Ferdinand Lopez to his death’. Whenever Ferdinand Lopez was mentioned he had always been hounded. And then the article went on to declare that either the Prime Minister had quarrelled with all his colleagues, or else that all his colleagues had quarrelled with the Prime Minister. Mr Slide did not care which it might be, but, whichever it might be, the poor country had to suffer when such a state of things was permitted. It was notorious that neither the Duke of St Bungay nor Lord Drummond would now even speak to their own chief, so thoroughly were they disgusted with his conduct. Indeed it seemed that the only ally the Prime Minister had in his own Cabinet was the Irish adventurer, Mr Phineas Finn. Lord Earlybird never read a word of all this, and was altogether undisturbed as he sat in his chair in Exeter Hall,–or just at this time of the year more frequently in the provinces. But the Duke of Omnium read it all. After what had passed he did not dare show it to his brother Duke. He did not dare to tell his friend that it was said in the newspapers that they did not speak to each other. But every word from Mr Slide’s pen settled on his own memory, and added to his torments. It came to be a fixed idea in the Duke’s mind that Mr Slide was a gadfly sent to the earth for the express purpose of worrying him.

And as a matter of course the Prime Minister in his own mind blamed himself for what he had done. It is the chief torment of a person constituted as he was that strong as may be the determination to do a thing, fixed as may be the conviction that the thing ought to be done, no sooner has it been perfected than the objections of others, which before had been inefficacious become suddenly endowed with truth and force. He did not like being told by Mr Slide that he ought not to have set his cabinet against him, but when he had in fact done so, then he believed what Mr Slide told him. As soon almost as the irrecoverable letter had been winged on its way to Lord Earlybird, he saw the absurdity of sending it. Who was he that he should venture to set aside all the traditions of office? A Pitt or a Peel or a Palmerston might have done so, because they had been abnormally strong. They had been Prime Ministers by the work of their own hands, holding their powers against the whole world. But he,– he told himself daily he was only there by sufferance, because at the moment no one else could be found to take it. In such a condition should he have not have been bound by the traditions of office, bound by the advice of one so experienced and so true as the Duke of St Bungay? And for whom had he broken through these traditions and thrown away this advice? For a man who had no power whatever to help him or any other Minister of the Crown;– for one whose every pursuit in life was at variance with the acquisition of such honours as that now thrust upon him! He could see his own obstinacy, and could even hate the pretentious love of virtue which he himself had displayed.

‘Have you seen Lord Earlybird with his ribbon?’ his wife said to him.

‘I do not know Lord Earlybird by sight,’ he replied angrily.

‘Nor anyone else either. But he would have come down and shown it himself to you, if he had a spark of gratitude in his composition. As far as I can learn you have sacrificed the Ministry for his sake.’

‘I did my duty as best I knew how to do it,’ said the Duke, almost with ferocity, ‘and it little becomes you to taunt me with my deficiency.’

‘Plantagenet!’

‘I am driven,’ he said, ‘almost beyond myself, and it kills me when you take part against me.’

‘Take part against you! Surely there was very little in what I said.’ And yet, as she spoke, she repented bitterly that she had at the moment allowed herself to relapse into the sort of badinage which had been usual with her before she had understood the extent of his sufferings. ‘If I trouble you by what I say, I will certainly hold my tongue.’

‘Don’t repeat to me what that man says in the newspaper.’

‘You shouldn’t regard the man, Plantagenet. You shouldn’t allow the paper to come into your hands.’

‘Am I to be afraid of seeing what men say of me? Never! But you need not repeat it, at any rate if it be false.’ She had not seen the article in question or she certainly would not have repeated the accusation it contained. ‘I have quarrelled with no colleague. If such a one as Lord Drummond chooses to think himself injured, am I to stoop to him? Nothing strikes me so much in all this as the ill-nature of the world at large. When they used to bait a bear tied to a stake, everyone around would cheer the dogs and help torment the helpless animal. It is much the same now, only they have a man instead of a bear for their pleasure.’

‘I will never help the dogs again,’ she said, coming up to him and clinging him within the embrace of his arm.

He knew that he had been Quixotic, and he would sit in his chair repeating the word to himself aloud, till he himself began to fear that he would do it in company. But the thing had been done and could not be undone. He had had the bestowal of one Garter, and he had given it to Lord Earlybird! It was,–he told himself, but not correctly,–the only thing he had done on his own undivided responsibility since he had been Prime Minister.

The last days of July had passed, and it had been at last decided that the Session should close on the 11th August. Now the 11th of August was thought to be a great deal too near the 12th to allow of such an arrangement being considered satisfactory. A great many members were angry at the arrangement. It had been said all through June and into July that it was to be an early Session, and yet things had been so mismanaged that when the end came everything could not be finished without keeping members of Parliament in town on the 11th August! In the memory of the present legislators there had never been anything so awkward. The fault, if there was a fault, was attributable to Mr Monk. In all probability the delay was unavoidable. A minister cannot control long-winded gentlemen, and when gentlemen are very long- winded there must be delay. No doubt a strong minister can exercise some control, and it is certain that long-winded gentlemen find an unusual scope for their breath when the reigning dynasty is weak. In that way Mr Monk and the Duke may have been responsible, but they were blamed as though they, for their own special amusement, detained gentlemen in town. Indeed the gentlemen were not detained. They grumbled and growled and then fled,–but their grumblings and growlings were heard even after their departure.

‘Well;–what do you think of it all?’ the Duke said one day to Mr Monk at the Treasury, affecting an air of cheery good-humour.

‘I think,’ said Mr Monk, ‘that the country is very prosperous. I don’t know that I ever remember trade to have been more evenly satisfactory.’

‘Ah, yes. That’s very well for the country, and ought, I suppose, to satisfy me.’

‘It satisfies me,’ said Mr Monk.

‘And me, in a way. But if you were walking about in a very tight pair of boots, in agony with your feet, would you be able just then to relish the news that agricultural wages in that parish had gone up sixpence a week?’

‘I’d take my boots off, and then try,’ said Mr Monk.

‘That’s just what I’m thinking of doing. If I had my boots off all that prosperity would be so pleasant to me! But, you see, you can’t take your boots off in company. And it may be that you have a walk before you, and that no boots will be worse for your feet than tight ones.’

‘We’ll have our boots off soon, Duke,’ said Mr Monk, speaking of the recess.

‘And when shall we be quit of them altogether? Joking apart, they have to be worn if the country requires it.’

‘Certainly, Duke.’

‘And it may be that you and I think upon the whole they may be worn with advantage. What does the country say to that?’

‘The country never says the reverse. We have not had a majority against us this Session on any Government question.’

‘But we have had narrowing majorities. What will the House do as to the Lords’ amendments on the Bankruptcy Bill? There was a bill that had gone down from the House of Commons, but had not originated with the Government. It had, however, been fostered by ministers of the House of Lords, and had been sent back with certain amendments for which the Lord Chancellor had made himself responsible. It was therefore now almost a Government measure. The manipulation of this measure had been one of the causes of the prolonged sitting of the Houses.’

‘Grogram says they will take the amendments.’

‘And if they don’t?’

‘Why then,’ said Mr Monk, ‘the Lords must take our rejection.’

‘And we shall have been beaten,’ said the Duke.

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘And simply because the House desires to beat us. I am told Sir Timothy Beeswax intends to speak and vote against the amendments.’

‘What,–Sir Timothy on one side, and Sir Gregory on the other?’

‘So Lord Ramsden tells me,’ said the Duke. ‘If it be so, what are we to do?’

‘Certainly not go out in August,’ said Mr Monk.

When the time came for the consideration of the Lords’ amendments in the House of Commons,–and it did not come till the 8th of August,–the matter was exactly as the Duke had said. Sir Gregory Grogram, with a deal of earnestness, supported the Lords’ amendments,–as he was in honour bound to do. The amendment had come from his chief, the Lord Chancellor, and had indeed been discussed with Sir Gregory before it had been proposed. He was very much in earnest;–but it was evident from Sir Gregory’s earnestness that he expected a violent opposition. Immediately after him rose Sir Timothy. Now Sir Timothy was a pretentious man, who assumed to be not only an advocate but a lawyer. And he assumed also to be a political magnate. He went into the matter at great length. He began by saying that it was not a party question. The bill, which he had had the honour of supporting before it went from their own House, had been a private bill. As such it had received a general support from the Government. It had been materially altered in the other House under the auspices of his noble friend on the woolsack, but from those alterations he was obliged to dissent. Then he said some very heavy things against the Lord Chancellor, and increased in acerbity as he described what he called the altered mind of his honourable and learned friend the Attorney-General. He then made some very uncomplimentary allusions to the Prime Minister, whom he accused of being more than ordinarily reserved with his subordinates. The speech was manifestly arranged and delivered with the express view of damaging the Coalition, of which at the time he himself made a part. Men observed that things were very much altered when such a course as that was taken in the House of Commons. But that course was taken on this occasion by Sir Timothy Beeswax, and was so far taken with success that the Lords’ amendments were rejected and the Government was beaten in a thin House, by a large majority–composed partly of its own men. ‘What am I to do?’ asked the Prime Minister of the old Duke.

The old Duke’s answer was exactly the same as that given by Mr Monk. ‘We cannot resign in August.’ And then he went on. ‘We must wait and see how things go at the beginning of next Session. The chief question is whether Sir Timothy should not be asked to resign.’

Then the Session was at an end, and they who had been staunch to last got out of town as quick as the trains could carry them.

CHAPTER 67

MRS LOPEZ PREPARES TO MOVE.

The Duchess of Omnium was not the most discreet woman in the world. That was admitted by her best friends, and was the great sin alleged against her by her worst enemies. In her desire to say sharp things, she would say the sharp thing in the wrong place, and in her wish to be good-natured she was apt to run into offences. Just as she was about to leave town, which did not take place for some days after Parliament had risen, she made an indiscreet proposition to her husband. ‘Should you mind asking Mrs Lopez down to Matching? We shall only be a small party.’

Now the very name of Lopez was terrible to the Duke’s ears. Anything which recalled the wretch and that wretched tragedy to the Duke’s mind gave him a stab. The Duchess ought to have felt that any communication between her husband and even the man’s widow was to be avoided rather than sought. ‘Quite out of the question!’ said the Duke, drawing himself up.

‘Why out of the question?’

‘There are a thousand reasons I could not have it.’